Page 22 of Foresyth Conservatory
“What is that smell?” I covered my nose.
“That’s the brine bath I was working on,” Nina cut across the lab space, and I followed her down the aisle. It became apparent that she was the only one using the lab, as I looked around, seeing stuffed birds, foxes, rabbits, and squirrels.
“That’s Beatrice.” I approached the aluminum bath slowly, pinching my nose as the stench of formaldehyde grew stronger. “Right, sorry. I’ve become desensitized to the smell; I don’t know how bad it is anymore.”
A giant brown hog was basking in the bath, rocks stacked on top to keep him from floating.
“It’s all the fat. Makes him buoyant,” Nina said.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I don’t know yet, but I couldn’t give up a find like that. I found him in the woods next to the school. Maybe I’ll make ashrunken head; I’ve been dying to try this Shuar recipe from a banned paper from the Academies.”
“You’ve got quite an impressive collection here,” I said, my eyes scanning the lab.
Nina shrugged. “Thanks. I’ve been trying to sell some of it after the Symposium, but it’s slow, and the shipping costs are astounding. Julian had a cousin who worked for the post and was helping, but since he’s been gone, it’s slowed down. Even the most aggressive collectors don’t want to pay for postage that’s worth almost the price of the artwork.”
“Julian was helping you sell these?”
“Yeah, now and then. That’s just how Julian was; he always helped people around here. He wasn’t selfish like the lot upstairs.” Nina stepped away from the brine bath. “That’s why when you showed up . . . I thought I ought to pay the favor forward. It’s what he would have wanted.”
“He died,” I said factually, staring at the brown hog covered in rocks.
“Yes, he did.”
“What happened?” I asked, turning to face Nina. The stench of formaldehyde had somehow become more tolerable the longer I stood in the lab.
“He killed himself, quitedramatically,” she said, the word landing with a bitter edge. “Hung himself in the sitting room—a grand gesture to the school and the Meister, just like Julian wanted. He talked about wanting to bring down the school, do something so dramatic that it’d get the press involved. But I never expected Julian wouldreallydo it. He underestimated the Meister, how well connected he is. Even with the school being underfunded, he’s from a long line of political magickians. They know how to bury things.”
“He and Julian weren’t on good terms, then?”
“No, not at all. Julian was from quite a powerful legacy, or so he said. But the Meister thought that was the only reason he got in. People underestimated Julian, especially his courage.”
“Why are you still here, then? After all that happened?”
Nina shifted her stance, the movement subtle but telling. “Students who come to Foresyth . . .” she began, her voice quieter now. “We don’t exactly have a wealth of alternatives. Especially not someone like me. We’re all repaying some kind of debt, one way or another.” She paused, eyes flicking to the floor before continuing. “I wasn’t born into a legacy. I wasn’t groomed for this. I stumbled into magick—and art—as a child, and it consumed me. Foresyth was the only place that ever offered me a way to make it more than a passing fascination.”
We made our way back to the lab benches, our footsteps echoing softly. “This place . . . it has everything I need to build a real life. Not just theory, not just talent—work. It’s the only shot I’ve got.”
“You really believe in it, don’t you? Magick, I mean,” I said, grazing my forefinger across a lab logbook at the acid station.
Nina shrugged. “Magick is what’s left over after reason explains. There’s a lot that’s still unexplained in the world, don’t you think, Miss Tarot reader?”
“That’s what the Meister said. That art was what is left over,” I said, raising my eyes to meet hers. “But I disagree, I think there’s a scientific explanation for everything. We just haven’t found it yet.”
Nina took the bench chair next to me, resting her chin on her elbows. “Really? You mean to say that nothing inexplicable has ever happened to you?”
I thought over her question, searching the archives of my memory.
“Once,” I admitted.
Nina’s eyes widened, and she leaned in.
“I was a kid.” I turned to her. “My dad was just playing some kind of magic trick on me. He used to do those a lot, but he always made me guess how he did it. A sleight of hand, a double-sided coin, invisible ink. I’d agonize over it for a few days until I’d figure it out,” I paused. “But there was one I never figured out.”
“Oh?” Nina prodded.
“It was something so silly. He was a geologist of sorts, so he liked to play with rocks, minerals, anything he could get his hands on. There was a black stone—obsidian I think—that I found in a park once. He made me put it in this jar of dirt he had sitting in his lab. The container was clear, so I could see the dirt—there wasn’t a false bottom or anything like it. I put the stone in it. He closed it and shook it up, and—a moment later, he poured all the dirt out onto his bench. The stone was gone.”
