Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent [A Magical Academy LitRPG]

Celine Moose hadn't talked much as she was escorted back to her dorm, and Fabrisse was surprised how close she actually lived from him. Just two buildings apart—though, technically, that was two entire dormitories and a courtyard with a security ward that screamed politely if a non-resident crossed after curfew. Still, close.

They now stood in the front garden of the girl's dorm, under the suspiciously passive supervision of Ilya Snezhnaya, who leaned against a hedge a good twenty paces away, pretending to be absorbed in her arcanoprism. She had run out of baguettes, and she had informed Lorvan about the incident. He would arrive at about fifteen minutes, and he would likely be in a reasonably angry state.

Fabrisse kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets. He wasn't technically in the dormitory building, so he hadn't violated any conduct clauses yet—he hoped. The garden, after all, was still part of the campus commons, wasn't it? Sort of?

No one had kicked him out yet, at least.

Celine sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the middle of the garden, hands folded in her lap. She hadn't looked at him since they got there, but she had made efforts at conversations. Like now. "Fabrisse. Um, I can call you Fabrisse, right?"

"I mean . . . You've already done so."

"I don't know why, but . . . I've actually thought of the possibility others will be interested in your unbinding. Then I went ahead and took the money and set up the meeting, and . . . and left you there. I—I was really stupid."

"It's okay. I do pretty stupid things too. It happens." And she was literally harmed as well, not just him. He could never bring himself to hold a grudge against her, especially not when she was in this state.

Then she stood, brushing off her skirt. "Can you wait here for a couple minutes?" she asked, still not quite meeting his eyes. "I—I know your guardian's watching, so it should be fine, right? No trouble."

He glanced at Ilya. She was still scrolling with dramatic disinterest.

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll wait."

"Okay." She turned, then took off toward the building.

She was so small, and the way she ran—arms close to her sides, head slightly ducked, legs a little too fast for her balance—made her look like a startled baby deer making a break for cover. Watching her run reminded him of Dubbie a little.

She should've been called Celine Duckling, not Celine Moose with that frame.

He watched her disappear through the front doors of the dorm. Then he let out a quiet sigh and looked up at the clouds.

Archmagus Rolen had given Celine a good scare before letting them go. The conversation had gone like this.

"Miss Moose. I do not believe I need to reiterate the utmost importance of confidentiality as for Mr. Kestovar's case," Rolen had said.

"Yes. I'll never say a word, Archmagus," she'd responded.

"You should also understand the severe potential academic repercussions should you disclose any information you shouldn't," Professor Kaldrin had added. To Fabrisse, it sounded very much like a threat, and a very unnecessary one at that. Poor Celine could only say 'yes' to that.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Celine was being honest. That much, Fabrisse could tell. He wasn't the best at reading people, but her voice had the kind of guilt choking at her throat that he thought one wouldn't reasonably fake. If Celine was really into journalism, of all things, it would be for the betterment of the world.

Celine returned just a few minutes later, clutching something tight to her chest like it might disappear. She hesitated at the edge of the fountain before walking over and extending it toward him—an envelope of waxed parchment, sealed with a thin red binding thread and faded sigils stitched into its corners.

She held it out with both hands. "Here," she said. "This is from the tipster; the one who paid for the meeting."

Fabrisse stared at it, not taking it right away.

"It's two thousand Kohns," Celine added, quieter. "I—I didn't even open it until just now. I don't deserve it. And I know you'll need to pay your tuition soon."

"How did you know?" Fabrisse's eyes opened wide.

"Liene told me about your situation."

"How did she know?" Fabrisse's eyes opened wider.

"She knows more about you than you think. Also, it's not hard to find out if you dig a little bit into your academic history."

Fabrisse stared at the envelope again. Two thousand Kohns. He didn't even need to peek inside to know how much that was. That amount would cover nearly a tenth of his tuition for next semester—possibly more, if he were careful. This was only fair compensation for all the trouble he'd been through.

His fingers twitched inside his coat pockets.

It would solve a lot of things. Not all of them. But a lot.

And yet . . .

Am I really going to take the easy way out again?

Let someone else pay off the consequences for me? Again?

He gently reached out—not for the envelope, but to push it back toward her.

"I can't take this."

She stared at him. "Fabrisse. How much money do you have right now?"

"I—"

"Take it. You can worry about your pride when you're not short of money."

"Thank you." He smiled at her. "But I would still like to see if I could make it first."

Celine stayed silent for a long while. Finally, she tilted her head as if peering at Fabrisse from another angle would reveal another side of his personality. "You know. Liene always talks about you, and we all wonder what you're actually like, since you fail classes all the time and her grades go way down whenever you two spend too much time together."

"Well, okay . . ." That didn't sound flattering.

"But you're put-together, Fabrisse. I think you're very nice, and I hope you can fit in at the Synod. Academically, at least." Then she slowly retracted her hands and put the envelope in her robe pocket. "If you change your mind about the money, come to me. Or if you need information on anything. I still chair a professionally-run journalist board, you know."

"Thank you."

"Also, you seem mature."

"I can assure you that I am very much not," Fabrisse replied dryly, already regretting making eye contact again.

Celine smiled at that—small, wobbly at the corners. She probably didn't quite believe him, but appreciated the effort anyhow.

"We need someone grounded to keep an eye on Liene, since we, well, specifically I, am not that grounded myself. One time, we went on an excursion, and she climbed into a ravine because she thought she heard whimpering. Then she got bitten by a wolf."

"Where?"

"No, regular," Celine continued despite Fabrisse's visible confusion. "I was right there, too, by the way. I could've stopped her. Should've, probably. But instead I leaned over the edge and said, 'Yeah, I hear it too. Might be a pup. Let's go save it!' We were in a nature reserve, Fabrisse."

Fabrisse didn't know what to say to that.

"So, um, we'll keep in touch?" Celine extended a hand, probably for a handshake. He gave her a weak one.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Their hands had barely separated when the front gate creaked open with the kind of restrained violence that meant someone had wanted to slam it and decided against it at the last moment. Lorvan stormed through the garden path, and his eyes had already locked onto Fabrisse, possibly from a mile away.

Just as Fabrisse thought. He looked reasonably fuming.