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