I trailed after the Detective Mages into the apartment, with Eleanor at my elbow. The shabby space inside had a sense of impermanence, with sparse furniture, peeling wallpaper, and few, if any, personal belongings. Whoever lived there didn’t intend to stay for long. Or they lacked a personality.
The report from the woman downstairs was most definitely not false. The smell of camphor came too strongly. No amount of candles could simulate it. The whole place smelled of camphor, the smell of Caelum-class magic. Cutting. Though, nothing appeared to be cut. Detective Hawkins took some notes, pretended to look around the rooms, and then went to the balcony to smoke. Detective Vannerling lingered at a shelf and stared at the books, static as a statue, until he pivoted on his heels at a steady pace and told us to stay—as if we were dogs—after which he, too, went to the balcony.
I observed the detectives for a few minutes. They wore ordinary police uniforms, but a grey half-cape hung across their shoulders. Plenty of people criticised the uniform. At best, silly. At worst, a detriment. The half-cape came from the days when the city first discovered magic. Back then, people thought hand gestures were necessary, so the cape was supposed to hide a mage’s “casting” hand. Decades had passed since then, but the people in charge liked the cape aesthetic.
I sighed and ran a finger across a dusty couch. ‘Life of a Detective Mage,’ I mused.
Eleanor ignored me and went to the shelf, likely to get some distance. Her coldness vexed me, not because I sought her friendship, but because from my perspective she had little reason to take umbrage. She had tried to hit me.
‘Read much?’ I asked, to fill the silence.
‘I can read fine.’
‘As a hobby, I mean.’
She shrugged. ‘Waste of time, and they cost a lot, but it’d be nice to have a collection.’
The shelf had a decent few rows of books, both new and old. I watched Eleanor grab them at random, flip roughly through a couple pages, apathetic to the integrity of the spines. She took out a sizeable book and mumbled, ‘Don Qui…’
‘Don Quixote,’ I finished, to which she scowled at me. Really, what was her issue? Furthermore, bringing attention to her scowl was like bringing attention to oxygen. Always there, seen or not. ‘It’s not a common name,’ I offered.
‘Don’t paganise me.’
Patronise, I thought, but elected to not fan her ire.
She put back the copy of Don Quixote and, to avoid me, meandered to another corner of the small room. But, I had spotted a lump at the back of the shelf, behind the books. It may have been an imperfection in the wood, or a trick of the light, but I reached in and ran my fingers across it. The lump flattened. Click. Metal creaked against metal and books thumped to the side as the shelf glided along the wall. Dust floated where the shelf had been, as if an outline, before scattering to the floor.
Detective Hawkins jammed his cigarette into the balcony rail and stormed back inside. ‘What’d you do?’ he shouted.
‘Nothing,’ I said, jumping away from the shelf.
‘You must never compromise the…’ Detective Hawkins trailed off.
A square room, the size of a large closet, had hid behind the shelf. An automatic light turned on. Nothing was in the room except for a man lying on his back, head by the entrance. His eyes were open but empty, and he did not breathe. My mouth opened and heart pounded. I recognised the face. He was Sergio Nicodemo, an associate of my family. He had been helping with—well, honestly, I wasn’t sure, but he’d had dinner with us a few times.
I automatically stepped forward to better confirm his identity, but Detective Hawkins ordered Detective Vannerling to bring us outside. He grabbed Eleanor and I, and with ease pulled us back onto the landing.
My voice wavered. ‘What was that?’
‘Do not concern yourself,’ Detective Vannerling replied. ‘We will handle it.’
I glanced at Eleanor. Our eyes met. I may not have liked her, but I wanted—needed—to make sure someone else had seen what I did. The image burned into my memory. Sergio Nicodemo wasn’t merely dead. His body had been cut in half. Not in the manner you’d assume. He wasn’t halved at the waist, but instead along his length, the frontal plane, so on his “back” it looked like he’d partially sunk into the floor. Magic accomplished amazing things, and in the same turn accomplished grotesque horrors like the scene before us.
#
More police and detectives came to the apartment, including Officer Renshaw, a “friend” of the family. Finding Sergio’s corpse meant our Detective Mage punishment got cut short, but any gladness got twinged with guilt at benefitting from death. Furthermore, back at the Academy, the talkative hierophant of physical education, Mr Barr, mentioned how the Academy had mandatory therapy session for students who had undergone trauma. Finding a corpse qualified, so at a later date Eleanor and I would need to sit in a prosaic office with a person trying to be our friend so we could spill our troubles and woes and they could mend us with a few trite words.
If I sounded critical of therapy, good, that was my intention. Note, I was not against therapy, counselling—ameliorations of the mind. I was against bad therapy, and I’d never spoken to what I’d call a “good” therapist. Definitely not one I could confide in without reservations.
The authorities talked to me a bit longer, going through perfunctory questions about my recent activities, finding Sergio Nicodemo’s corpse, and any connection to him. I answered truthfully. Then a police officer remarked that my name hadn’t been on the official schedule, so why had I gone to the punishment? I didn’t appreciate his accusatory tone, the implication I’d gone to “accidentally” find a corpse.
I had a whole snappy response mentally planned, which I may or may not have delivered, but Officer Renshaw interjected on my behalf:
‘We should applaud Miss Fornax’s initiative, even if she got a teensy bit too involved.’
Great, so very magnanimous of him.
Before they dismissed me, I got a chance to speak with Officer Renshaw. He informed me the likely official verdict for Sergio’s death would be a magic-related accident. Ridiculous! What, Sergio had played with an item infused with Caelum-class magic and just happened to slice himself in half? I pressed Officer Renshaw with questions, but he claimed the powers-that-be wanted the case to have a neat resolution.
‘Drop it, Vicky. Whales don’t eat whales.’
Though discontent, I went to my room and took a nap. I passed Eleanor on the way. She had a wide-eyed, dazed countenance, all the more surprising in contrast to her usual scowl. Poor girl. I figured she hadn’t seen a corpse before. A therapy session may have been good for her – in multiple ways.
My nap felt like an overdose of sleep, the kind so deep and full that you wake up uncertain what time it is, where you are, or how to spell your name. My hair stuck up at an odd angle, like a tidal wave about to crash, so I combed it while orienting myself. Time: Early evening. Where: Dormitory. Name: V-I-C-something. Sufficient. Starving, I rushed to the cafeteria.
The evening passed in an unremarkable way, made all the less interesting when I considered that twelve hours prior I had found a corpse. I questioned if telling my parents was a good idea, but they probably already heard. Unable to stop my thoughts, I went to bed, but the nap affected my sleep schedule.
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By midnight, after about an hour of indecision, I acknowledged sleep wasn’t coming. I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and got a flashlight, before creeping down the hall to room 14. I tapped twice with my nails, quiet as I could spare. Nothing. I knocked again, risking a louder rap with my knuckles.
Leaving your room at night wasn’t prohibited, but you weren’t supposed to be going to classmates’ rooms. Sure, I could probably leverage my family name, but that short term solution created a bigger future problem. Certain teachers would not scold me, but they’d feel like they’d gotten a proverbial foot in the door of my favour, which would only escalate. Then there were my classmates. What would they say if Victoria F. Fornax got caught skulking the hallways, desperately trying to get into the room of Eleanor Wilson, the underachieving troublemaker.
I hadn’t forgiven Eleanor for what happened at the Sentinel trials, or outside the faculty office, but she was the only person I could talk to about the halved corpse of Sergio Nicodemo and the verdict it was a magic-related accident. Also, I didn’t hate her. More like she confused me, and interactions made me uneasy. When rumours about her being a drug dealer, smuggler, underground fighter, prostitute, or worse got passed around, I had a hard time dismissing them. Well, not because I thought she was, but because I didn’t know the truth. She certainly wasn’t a conventional student, and mostly she gave the impression that studying at the Academy was the last thing she wanted, an insult to various teenagers both within and without Vandagriff.
I didn’t have much patience for people, yet I selfishly talked when it suited me. In this case, I hoped Eleanor could help me process the events surrounding Sergio’s death. And, more importantly, help me quell—or fan—the flames of my intention.
You see, my intention—more of a fantasy—with utter naivety, was to solve the case of Sergio’s death, like those novels about teenage detectives. My reasoning went: Sergio worked for our family. If I found his killer, Father might grant me more responsibility and status.
But perhaps—and I felt this to be a slim chance—I wanted, in a simple, unassuming way, to possibly know Eleanor better. To be clear, I may have wanted that for the sake of contrast. She was so different from the usual people around me, I merely wanted to know a different side of life. That was the excuse I maintained.
Eleanor still hadn’t answered my knocking. Did I dare risk more? On impulse, I gave a hard three knocks, shocking myself with the noise. The door swung open instantly. ‘What?’ Eleanor snarled. It took a moment for my identity to register – after which her scowl deepened. ‘What do you want?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Are you sleepwalking?’
‘…No?’
‘Okay, then.’ The door began to close.
I pushed my shoulder against it. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened? You know, this morning?’
‘I’ll assume you do?’ She sneered. ‘I hear you can pay people for that, so…’ She applied more force to the door. I did the same in turn.
‘That man’s death is being called a magic-related accident,’ I whispered. Pressure on the door slackened a tiny bit, but not enough. ‘And I’ll pay you ten dollars to discuss it with me.’
‘Nope.’
‘Twenty.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Okay…?’
‘You’re shivering,’ Eleanor remarked, without a trace of concern.
Indeed, I shivered, given I wore star-pattern pyjamas and the Vandagriff halls were kept cold to deter students, like myself, from engaging in midnight escapades.
I peered over Eleanor’s shoulder and saw a packet of raspberry sweets. Odd. That type was hard to find in Melbourne. ‘I’ll get you a packet of those,’ I promised, jabbing a finger at the sweets. ‘Just let me in.’ I glanced back up the hallway. A lantern illuminated the end. The angle of light began to round the corner. A member of faculty. Still looking back, I stumbled forward as the door opened fully. Eleanor caught my arm, closed the door, and helped me right myself.
I scrutinised her room. It was…not what I expected. Torn newspaper and magazines covered the floor. Papers taped to the walls haphazardly covered crayon and pen markings. Something smelled dead or dying. No bedframe, just a mattress on the ground. Wait, not exactly. It was about half the thickness of the Academy-issue mattress. Unwashed clothes piled in the corner. At least the lamp worked, though the light came out unevenly due to black paint on the bulb.
I stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, rigid as a prickling sensation rolled across my skin. Eleanor sat on her mattress, knees raised. The uneven, segmented light made it feel like we met in a discreet, otherworldly place, as if space between walls and worlds.
‘I see you’ve settled in,’ I said.
‘What of it?’
‘Do you like art?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’ I looked closer at the walls, regretting my prior words upon discovering the markings weren’t art.
Eleanor snapped her fingers at me. ‘You wanted to chat? So, chat.’
‘Okay. Right. So.’ Her brusque manner disarmed me. ‘The man this morning—his death is being ruled as a magic-related accident.’
‘You said that already.’
‘Yes, I did.’ I fidgeted with my nails. ‘I don’t think it was an accident. What…do you think about that?’
‘An accident sounds like bullshit.’
‘Yes!’ I stepped toward her, caught myself, and dropped to a whisper. ‘I don’t know why they’re covering it up.’
‘Me neither.’
We fell silent. After a few seconds, I felt I’d missed the chance to talk. After a minute, I assumed Eleanor might revive the conversation. And after two minutes, I couldn’t put up with the awkwardness. ‘I’ve been told to forget about it.’ I gave a light, abrupt laugh. ‘If I try hard enough, I should be able to convince myself it was an accident.’
Eleanor’s head whipped to me, eyes ignited, emotion unconcealed. ‘Would you do that? Make yourself forget?’
‘I was kidding.’
‘You don’t care about the dead guy?’
‘I…’
Why had I gone to Eleanor’s room? To process events, yes, but now they were being processed. Objective complete. What was the result supposed to look like?
Abruptly, Eleanor grabbed a handful of raspberry sweets and shoved them into her mouth. ‘I’m going to get the man who did it,’ she declared, through the mouthful.
‘You agree it was murder?’
‘The guy was missing half his body.’ She flicked a dismissive hand at me. ‘If you want to make yourself forget, fine, but don’t try convincing me to do the same.’
Eleanor’s uniqueness came gradually, less a light through clouds, more like a creature cracking a shell.
‘I won’t forget,’ I said. ‘I, too, want to find the person responsible.’
She shrugged. ‘Good to know.’
I nodded. That was my cue to leave. But as I turned, I got a better look at the markings on the walls. I’d assumed Eleanor had scribbled them herself, either out of rebellion or boredom, but then I noted the words. And I read them. And I recoiled, as if slapped. And I had to process how some of the words were vulgar while others were piercingly personal with a degree of cruel, creative detail that made me nauseated. I had been thoughtless, earlier.
‘Want some,’ Eleanor said, offering me the raspberry sweets.
‘Did you write this?’
She shot to her feet. ‘If you think I wrote those things for—’
‘Have you told a teacher?’ I asked.
She scoffed. ‘They think I want attention.’
‘Still, they should get someone to clean it.’
‘It’ll come back.’
I took a closer look at Eleanor, caught the mingling notes of frustration and cold fury in her voice. I began to understand. The abuse on the walls had an underlying motif: Whoever wrote it wanted Eleanor to leave the Academy, whether through resignation, expulsion, or something more darkly permanent. ‘I’ve heard of this,’ I said under my breath.
‘Gosh, really?’ She chewed. ‘It must seem terribly quaint to someone like you. Bet you’ve read about bullying in books.’
‘I can help. Who’s doing it?’
‘Now this—this we can forget about.’ Eleanor strode to the door and held it open. I bit my tongue and stepped into the hallway, after which the door slammed shut.
‘Good chat,’ I mumbled.
#
I stirred with renewed purpose. I would find Sergio’s killer. He worked with my family, so I should treat his death—his possible murder—as a personal matter. If I found his killer, Father would gain a clearer picture of who his daughter was becoming. He’d be proud of it.
I didn’t shiver. The hallway could’ve frosted over and I’d still walk with the same zeal, posture upright and arms swinging, militaristic, primed for a fight in the future. I was fired up, unafraid of anything.
‘Excuse me.’
Well. Unafraid, but not without pragmatic concerns. ‘Yes?’ I responded, turning to the voice, knowing what was about to transpire and dreading each inevitable second. Mr Irvine, the hierophant of literature, crossed the hallway on little scurrying steps. He was shorter than me, with thick hair and twitchy mannerisms. I got the impression he wanted students to think of him as a cool member of faculty, since he couldn’t achieve the usual image of a stern, austere hierophant with traces of condescension.
Mr Irvine was arguably the worst faculty member who could’ve caught me. The teachers were less interested than the hierophants when it came to my surname. Among the hierophants, the more accomplished ones like Miss Lim and Mr Yoxall—or the apathetic Mrs Geisler—didn’t so much as blink when they heard my surname. But the cloying and desperate, those who wanted to prove something, they honed in on my surname like moths to a flame. And among those, Mr Irvine was the worst. Based on rumours, he not only wanted a connection to Fornax, he wanted to marry into the family. Octavia only had oblique comments made, but Samara insisted he’d asked her out, and now, it seemed, it was my turn to witness either baseless slander or disturbing truth.
‘Victoria,’ Mr Irvine whispered, his lantern illuminating his face from below. ‘Do I have to say it?’
‘I-I went to the bathroom.’
‘Which is over there.’ He stuck his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Yes, and?’
‘Your room is over there.’ Again, the thumb.
‘I…got turned around. Because my flashlight ran out of battery.’
‘Uh huh.’ He clearly didn’t believe me and, worse, wasn’t going to give me a detention. ‘Hurry back to your room and I’ll let this slide, alright?’ He winked. Right, he’d let it slide until he needed something.
I shuffled past him, not turning my back for a few paces, and then briskly walked to my room. Quite the day. Luckily, the midnight escapade made me tired enough to finally slip into a restless slumber.