December 19th, 1894 — Ancient Studies Classroom

Whether as a last resort or a brilliant idea, Themis found herself on the second floor of the castle, not quite certain when her feet decided to lead her here. The idea had bubbled up the day after Samuel disappeared. Disappeared. It was the only word she could give to the situation. He’d taken all his conflicted feelings, hollow body, and despairing eyes with him when he exited her tower. She refused to call it ‘leaving her,’ resisted the ghosts at the fringes of her mind that mocked “this is the last time you’ll see him.” Yet, the ghosts did whisper, the nights seemed longer, and her beloved stars colder.

Her scar itched now. She told herself it was healing, that the pale pink would fade further and there would be little evidence of the actions that caused it. Themis did not regret her exploration or its evidence, she regretted not understanding what she walked into. There was no blame to assign, her curiosity had sparked, her heart decided and her mind approved. And she would do it again. Perhaps that was why she was now standing in what had once been a simple classroom. She felt the prickling of magic here as strongly as she had in Samuel’s laboratory, but the sensation was different, the magic existing on a different frequency. The magic here was fluid, liquid and vicarious. It felt closer to her own magic, nothing like the heat and weight she attributed to Samuel. But her understanding was too simplistic and lacking words, identification not complete at her current stage of knowledge. This might be what she resented most – her unknowing. She would remedy this. She went to the best source she could think of, even if it came with hesitation.

“Professor Crowley, thank you for agreeing to see me.” The woman before her was almost a paler mirror of herself. Both woman tall, angular and pale, Miss Crowley looked as if the sun had never seen her, the paleness of her striking, making Themis appear warm and vibrant by comparison, the sun consulting the moon. Themis did not know the younger witch well, was married and raising her son by the time Miss Crowley was at Hogwarts. She also came from pure blood and ancient money, things that neither impressed nor endeared anyone to Themis. But, the slender rod of a witch was eccentric, blunt and brutally honest in her assessments. More than once Themis had bit her lip to keep from laughing at Miss Crowley’s comments during staff meetings. She appeared to have no regard for convention or societal niceties and that, Themis could appreciate. Maybe that was why she was testing the waters, curious to see just how clever Professor Morrigan Crowley could be. “I would like to inquire about some magic I’ve encountered in my research. I admit, it is beyond my experience.”

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Morrigan Crowley

  

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Lou made magic!

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Morrigan stood at the table in her classroom like a statue and considered something only she could see. There was fog in the room and a light above, obscured. Her long hair was tightly put up and devoid of color. It blended together with her skin as if everything about her was veiled by bone-white dust, even her dress was white like a sun-bleached carcass. She moved her head to face Professor Lyra. "Is it the search for knowledge that has you so anguished as of late, Professor Lyra?" she asked.

Professor Lyra could be thought of as resembling her in the broadest brushstrokes. Yet in all details she was beset by beauty so pleasing to the conventional eye that her life must have—couldn't have—looked anything like that of Morrigan, whom the world was unkind to on account of her lack of it. She did not resent Professor Lyra for that, for she was never personally unkind to her. Morrigan instead observed her idly whenever she saw her and built theories about her supposed mysteries in her mind. Lately, Professor Lyra was sad and unsettled. Morrigan, not usually an apt observer of social nuances, noticed. Her request to see her she let breathe on her desk for a night before she replied. Now she bade her to come in, and the door fell shut behind her colleague.

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Themis' lip twitched, a soft grin not quite reaching her eyes. And here she was under the impression that she'd maintained her facade to the broader world. It hadn't surprised her when her son asked about her mood, but coming from a virtual stranger unsettled her. Apparently, she wasn't the only one with a habit of observation. She wasn't sure if she should be concerned, but she wouldn't take Professor Crowley's gaze for granted again. That would be folly. She considered her response as she let her eyes map her surroundings. Her host was difficult to look away from, yet somehow harder to look at. Something about the witch's mannerisms and dress brought to mind a skeleton, the line between living and dead seemingly blurred in the body of a woman very much alive. This, she thought, was what muggles and the small-minded imagined when they spoke of witches.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." She wasn't inclined to lie; it would be disrespectful to her host and a blow to her own ethical code. There were plenty of ways to tell the truth and keep her secrets safe. She disliked thinking of Samuel as a secret. It was disingenuous and gave the impression, in her mind, that there was some reason for shame. Of all the things complicating her world, shame had no part in it. She was not ashamed of the man she adored. Her only regret now, as she stood before an unlikely and unwitting judge, was that she hadn't the courage to be honest about the depths of her feelings. It was, perhaps, the worst way she had failed him. Anguish was the correct term for the turmoil in her chest; it was joined by a spark of something aggressive and defensive, the urge to bear her teeth and disguise all weakness. It was reactionary, ridiculous. She allowed the feeling to settle in amid the convoluted mess of her heart. This was not the time for impulsive words. "Perhaps it is my unknowing that troubles me so." Not a lie, but an evasion all the same.

She didn't startle when the door closed behind her, but the feeling of the walls closing in skittered up her spine. This was not her realm; this was not her sanctuary; until proven otherwise, Professor Crowley was not her ally. It was do her well to remember that.

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Lou made magic!

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"Not knowing can drive a person mad," replied Morrigan. "As can knowing," she continued, and she said it matter-of-factly. She observed Professor Lyra's tightly wound eyes in her bright and pointed face. Her smile exerted control, and there was a perceptible tension to her, as if her nerves were continually smoldering. Morrigan gestured towards the chair by her desk that was a dark grey slab of marble. The chair was angular and uncomfortable. She sat down herself in the twinned chair behind her desk, and in doing so, Morrigan folded down from her towering height that belonged to her long limbs and to her high shoes. In sitting, she looked smaller and more awkward. Her elongated hands spread out on the tabletop and twitched, as if looking for something to fidget with but there was nothing to touch. "The unknowing of what exactly brought you to me, Professor?" she asked.

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It did not escape Themis that she had walked into a mental match of Wizard's Chess. Or perhaps, the woman across from her didn't play a game of power, grappling for the reins of control. Perhaps it was possible that the hawk-like witch thought herself outside of such machinations. Maybe it was Themis who, after a life of carefully guarded control and months beside Samuel, mistook all things for negotiations of power; that, or a hostile takeover. She could not sit in the stone slab of a seat and not think the discomfort deliberate, that keeping guests uncomfortable was a tactic. Themis knew Professor Crowley seemed to disappear into her own world, but she was not so naive as to think the other witch was blind to the workings of the world. She was a woman, whatever her physical appearance, perhaps blood and money had made her path easier, but there was no possible way Morrigan Crowley was unaware of the games one had to play for respect and dignity in their society.

Themis logged every change in mannerism and noted that the unnatural stillness the other witch exhibited disappeared when she sat, her body seeming to lose some sense of decorum as she shrank into her seat. She fidgeted with nothing and for a moment, Themis was reminded of Eleanor Griffith and the obvious discomfort in her skin. It wasn't a lack of self-worth that had her colleague twitching; that Themis wouldn't believe. Morrigan Crowley just was. There was no better word for her presence, the signals she sent were conflicting and varied. It was almost aggravating, but Themis had always enjoyed a good puzzle.

"Knowledge is also powerful, which we both know can lead to worse than madness. That doesn't mean we ignore it and leave it for the megalomaniacs to hoard." Themis opined. She, at least, was incapable of letting such people go unchecked. Or so she hoped. An unfriendly voice questioned whether it was a matter too close to her to be seen objectively. Hadn't she delighted in the feel of her power running free? She'd nearly bled out in Samuel's laboratory as she got drunk on the taste of her magic. She was in no position to preach. Did her scar itch more, or was that a trick of the mind? It took effort to keep her hands folded in her lap. "While I loved Ancient Studies in school, my professor was far more interested in teaching for exams. There was very little room for proper exploration. That, and no one seems keen to let teenagers run unchecked through magic that can bend the world." That she added with a grin. It made all the sense in the world, but it limited knowledge and understanding, left too much unsaid to encourage further exploration. Themis wondered at how the subject had changed now that Professor Crowley was at the helm. "My question, Professor, concerns the living magicks." Themis reached into her robe pocket and produced a small phial of an easily identifiable red liquid. "My research has led me to references of blood magic. I would like to better understand the art before I move toward further experimentation." She watched carefully as she spoke, looking for any tells the other women may provide. Would this shock her? Alarm her? There was only one way to know.

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   Morrigan Crowley

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Morrigan Crowley stared at Professor Lyra and wondered about the face of the enemy she imagined, that stole and kept the knowledge of power. Her voice was very certain, as though it laid down a law. Themis Lyra grinned again, and her eyes were bright and grave. Something contracted around Morrigan in her presence, as if those eyes bade her to freeze in place.

Morrigan's face turned into half profile. While she was still looking at her guest, it also gave her the impression of being halfway to turning away. "Blood magic runs through the secret histories, sometimes as a trickle, sometimes a river," she said and glanced only briefly at the vial with blood. "Our contemporaries consider it a dark art, but that is reductive."

Morrigan stood up again and walked over to a kettle on a strange and blackened metal contraption. Enough water was left inside, and she lit the fire, perplexingly, with a banal set of matches produced from an old matchbox. "To remedy your lack of knowing, you require sources belonging to the secret histories. Secret histories belong to the invisible arts. As the name suggests, those cannot be found at the library. Unless the library is secretive in nature, or invisible," explained Morrigan while she prepared tea. She did so with no utilization of magic. As such, it took time and procedure.

Finally, a cup was set down in front of her colleague and Professor Crowley settled back behind her desk. "I could assist you with your research." Morrigan was a scholar. She was given to the hours of illumination. She did not sacrifice at the altar of the hours from blood. However, someone else residing at the school might. "Blood Alchemy is the specialty of Professor Griffith. You might want to try asking him," she said, and her pale eyes narrowed —Griffith was a disciple of the forge that got subverted by the grail; Since finding the Beheliths at his office, this theory grew towards certainty with every observation of him that she added to her net of information. Not only did he know, he practiced. Now a new seeker awakened and found her way to her door. She turned that connection of circumstances back and forth in her mind.

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   Themis Lyra

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Something relaxed slightly at her colleague’s assessment of this ‘dark art’. “Reductive and arbitrary, as are most systems forced upon us.” Themis believed in absolutes, in right and wrong, but she believed them far rarer than claimed by the wider world. Magic and knowledge were inherently amoral in her understanding. It was action and intent that colored anything in ethical terms. Whatever ghosts haunted Samuel, there was no danger in Themis better understanding his cryptic work. If anything, this investigation would make her less of a liability and more of an active partner. She felt a thrill race through her veins as she thought back on their experiments, the taste she’d had of her own magic leaving her hungry.

She considered her host as she moved to make tea, Themis noting silently that she chose to work as a muggle would. Interesting detail, that. Themis barely bit back a grin as the younger witch spoke in riddles. She seemed to rush between brutal assessment and cryptic breadcrumbs, her words offering information but little actionable substance. That was the case until she offered to help with research, until she mentioned Samuel. At least Themis was expecting this. She’d had an answer prepared for their frequent companionship for months now. That should have been all the clue she needed to understand that something had changed between them. It was amazing what the mind could avoid when given the opportunity. “I intend to ask Professor Griffith when he returns, but I have no intention of putting my research aside in his absence. I would be most grateful if you would assist me, I fear my understanding is very limited.” Another fact and another maneuver. If she was less focused on analyzing her host, Themis might realize she found this game almost entertaining.

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   Morrigan Crowley

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Professor Crowley produced a wary smile. The tea in her cup was dark and she offered neither sugar nor milk, because that was not her habit and she had taken no thought towards receiving guests.

On her desk between them lay, invisibly, the invitation to embark on a journey with her colleague. The invitation was genuine, the motivation was obscure, the intention was obfuscated. Morrigan Crowley looked onto the empty space of stone as if she could study the fine print there. She looked up at Professor Lyra's face and searched for the hidden meanings there, but could not read the language of her mind.

"Very well," she said. "I will assist you best as I can. Where shall we start?" She turned the cup in her bony hands. "If you say 'from the beginning,' I must warn you that we will be here for a while longer than you are prepared for."

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   Themis Lyra

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"If I said 'from the beginning,' I wouldn't have known to bring this." Themis raised the phial in her hand with a wry little grin. Themis was eager to learn, but she had no wish to make new scars a habit. She also had no intention of surrendering her vulnerability to this woman so easily. There were too many variables Themis didn't understand, and she refused to risk her life in Morrigan Crowley's office. Her pride wouldn't allow it.

There was no question in her mind where to begin as one question continued to override most others in her head. "If we accept that magic resides in our blood, all magic becomes blood magic. Why, then, does blood alchemy seem to affect the practitioner differently than elemental alchemy? Shouldn't the physical experience of the magic be consistent for the practitioner? The references I've encountered," was a nice way to sidestep admitting to the practice directly. "Point to a difference in both the physical experience of the magic and the persistence of the effects after the ritual was complete." She'd completed the ritual. She knew she had, but the thought didn't settle easily into her head. Something seemed off. She'd dissolved her circle the way Samuel had taught her. It was the easiest of the skills he'd given her to practice; she didn't know why, but it felt natural. So her dissolving of the circle shouldn't be the reason the magic had seemed to cling to the cells of her body and the air around her. Something had been different in Samuel's Whitechapel residence, and the lack of answers was wreaking havoc in her dreams. "If magic is in our blood, we use blood in any ritual. Why is using blood as a conduit so different?" Themis wished for answers while mentally preparing for the witch across from her getting cheeky and asking to check her sources.

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   Morrigan Crowley

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Lou made magic!

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