Now alone, Ingrid took out a crude tin box, engraved with boxy runes, now rendered inert. She took out a messily rolled cigarette of smokeleaf, small shards falling out of the end, and raised her hand to light it. Before she could begin the light calculations, Leland sleepily grabbed at her arm, mumbling, “Smoke outside dumbass.” Ingrid stared at his hand reaching for her sleeve, the soft pads of his fingers and palm, the whiteness of his knuckles as they gripped the sleeve of her coat. She took off her coat and draped it over Leland, ambling with hunched back out the door. The entire school was already silent in fear, but the absence of any people made the hallway seem haunted. As she held the cigarette in between her lips she could feel the preserving charm failing as the leaf deteriorated, the flakes falling out of the end at first sounding like shards of tempered metal clinking on the marble floor but becoming more and more muted until no sound can be heard from it as the leaves have gone from a hard leaf preserved in the moment to decaying in seconds. Ingrid reached her hand in front of the cigarette, trying to catch the shards as they fell out, but they atomized the moment they touched the air. She scoffed slightly as she reached the main promenade’s courtyard.
The open air design was meant to offer a moment of cool aired reflection for scholars who had been stuck inside stuffy libraries, so effigies of Kulene were placed in the centers of flowing fountains, now stagnant. The residual cool air was fighting off the desert heat, but as the sun was setting it wouldn’t have to fight much longer. Ingrid walked out from under the walkways. She reached for the cigarette in between her lips only to find that the leaves had entirely fallen out, leaving only the paper and small cotton wad. She scoffed again before reaching for her tin box, pulling out a new cigarette and trying to light it.
Ingrid cupped her hands around the end and started snapping her fingers. Despite the new calculations, the small flame would only stay for a fraction of a second before extinguishing. Ingrid readjusted after each try to no avail, this wasn’t a problem that could be brute forced with a guess-and-check approach. She tried again only for the sparks that emanated from her fingers to grow beyond the field that she had calculated for, growing into a blaze of multicolored flame. ‘How beautiful’, she thought, only for a second. The fire singed the tips of her fingers and the palm of her hand. She recoiled from the uncontrolled flame, clutching at her hand. She grabbed the tin cigarette box and threw it at the ground, the hollow clang echoing throughout the hall.
Ingrid panted as she held her burned hand close to her stomach, tears brimming at her eyes. Cursing to herself, she bent over to pick up the box. Behind her, Ingrid heard a voice, raspy and alto.
“If you intend to continue to smoke, you should consider carrying a matchbook with you. Even if the arcane returns, it is a pain to account for all variables when you could just strike phosphorus together to produce a flame of equal quality.” Ingrid heard the hissing sound of a match being struck as a hand appeared at her side. The hand was aged and thin, simple rings of gold and steel adorning them. The skin was leathery, dark like it had been scorched by the sun many years ago. The wrist was adorned with a velvet sleeve, black fabric embossed with gold on top presenting a pattern of roses on the vine, thorns and all. In her hand was held a single match, made of thick paper, the phosphorus tip blistering and smoldering as it began to burn. Ingrid turned to face the woman behind her, her good hand limply holding the cigarette box.
“Dean Kedam, I’m sorry for the outburst, I didn’t realize you would be out.” She began to bow, but was interrupted by The Dean.
“Again, if you intend to smoke, I’d recommend you do it now, I don’t want to burn these old hands of mine.” The match had burned lower and was threatening to burn the tips of the Dean’s fingers. Ingrid hurriedly grabbed a new cigarette and cupped her hands around the end, inhaling deeply. The warm sensation entered through her lungs and a feeling of relaxation had spread through her body. She put the cigarette box back in her pocket, still inert, and bowed slightly.
“Thank you Dean. I’m sorry for being surprised, I just wasn’t expecting you to be here of all places. If anything, I was expecting some sort of emergency meeting to be happening.” The Dean smiled before taking out a small pipe and beginning to light it. The Dean was an older woman, her face, thin and leathery like her hands. The fabric of her sleeve attached to a shawl that seemed to wrap around her like the petals of the roses the fabric displayed, under which was a set of simple work clothes, a deep shade of emerald green. Though she clearly showed signs of age, the grace in her posture and measured look in her eyes displayed a mental sharpness seldom seen in even the youthful.
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“Oh I’m certain there is, but without sufficient information that meeting is little more than a stalling maneuver for the bureaucrats. I despise meeting with those parasites so I avoid it when I can.” The Dean took a cursory puff as the pipe began to smolder, inhaling in small puffs to feed the column of smokeleaf like a pair of bellows. She began to stare at the sun, now nearly fully set, the orange hue transitioning to a dark blue as night began to take over the day. Dean Kedam grabbed the bowl of the pipe and looked back at Ingrid. “What will you do now, Ingrid?” Ingrid coughed slightly and pointed at herself.
“Me? Uh. Sorry I didn’t know you knew my name.” She took her cigarette in her hand and tapped the end over the fountain, the ash only dissolving partly, the rest floating atop the water. The Dean frowned at her. Ingrid winced slightly and mouthed a sorry. The Dean pulled an aged box with smokeleaf decals printed on the side and disposed of the matches in it. She then placed it on the edge of the fountain before taking a seat. The fountains all had a long edge, designed to be like a bench. Engraved on the outer lip of each of these fountains was the central motto of the school, The Eternal Hunt For Knowledge Makes Students Of Us All. The Dean patted the fountain next to her, beckoning Ingrid to sit. She took another long draw from her pipe.
“Once again, what will you do now, Ingrid?” Ingrid sat next to her, legs splayed out and leaning back on her arms. What would she do? Becoming a baker might not be the craziest thought. Could she reasonably continue on a path of magical botany if magic was no longer certain? She didn’t have the greatest affinity for the arcane, but it still seemed such a waste. And what about Leland? The only reason they had become friends in the first place was because he detested the dirty work of growing plants for his magic and she was struggling with the base factors. Without magic, he would lose all reason to interact with botany period. Surely they would continue being friends right? That and a dozen other thoughts swirled around in Ingrid’s mind. She sighed and hunched over.
“I’m not sure. Whatever comes next I suppose. People will need crops to grow, magic or not.” The Dean shook her head.
“It’d be a waste to have such talent simply give up. But adaptability is a skill too. I, however, have no such skill, nor do I intend to learn it. If I stop practicing magic, it will be because every drop has dried up and my fingers refuse to move. However I have doubts that such a future will come to pass.” Dean Kedam took one last draw from her pipe before dipping a finger in the water and extinguishing the ashes. Ingrid finished the last of her cigarette before crushing it on the edge of the ashbox and tossing it in. Ingrid watched the smoldering cigarette butt fizzle out as the ashes lit up a small corner of the box. As the cinders began to fade she watched as that corner was overtaken by the shadows of the box once more and turned towards Dean Kedam, her back now turned to her. Ingrid asked,
“What happens if it doesn’t come back, or worse, if it does and we have to live knowing that it could go away at any point?” The Dean paused for a moment and then turned to face Ingrid directly. The sun’s halo was all that was left peeking over the horizon, but the orange light seemed to reflect in Dean Kedam’s eyes. Ingrid gazed into those eyes, mesmerized for a moment. It was a well-worn story, the tale of the Kedam family’s eyes. The mark of a blessing, granted to the family some millennia ago when an ancestral dragon was convinced of their guile and wit. The dragon gifted all those who would follow in their bloodline an innate talent for magic and glowing golden eyes just like theirs. The story was told so many times, even students from within the academy thought it to be myth, Ingrid herself among them. But even those myths didn’t do the truth justice. The Dean’s eyes were of a brilliant gold hue with flecks of green dotting the darkened edge, nearly glowing with the light of the sun. The pupils were shaped like gemstones, like those of a fox, filled with knowing and the mythical guile that the legends told of. The Dean stared back at Ingrid as the last dregs of the sun’s light retreated and the stars dotted the sky. She pulled from her pocket the book of matches, now holding just two. She then snapped her fingers like Ingrid had tried to do and set the matches aflame in her own hand, yet she showed no discomfort, the flames reflecting their dancing light in her eyes. She turned and said to Ingrid resolutely,
“Then perhaps we have been stagnant too long and it’s time to fan the flames. Our scarcity will sow the seeds of a season of plenty.”
