TOULOUSE FRANCE, 2022
Thea led me into the hall. The floor was covered with waxed red tiles. They shifted under my hooves. They were ruder than the black and white ones on the lower floor, a common thing in older houses.
From floor to ceiling, there were many bookcases of antique construction. Between each bookcase was a sconce in the same style as the others. Each one puffed to life as we approached it.
I scanned some of the books. There was a collection of the works of Fulcanelli the Alchemist, including some unpublished volumes. Several treatises on Hermes Trismegistus, a corpuscule on the crimes of Cervantes and no less than three copies of the Necronomicon, that glorious work by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred.
I was unable to detect any theme in the organisation of her shelves. Old books like The Infernal Comedy were next to newer books with glossy spines. There were modern titles such as The Joys of Necromancy and Blood Rites for the Teenage Soul. Curiously there was an entire shelf dedicated to books only about horses.
“May I?” I asked, and Thea nodded.
I took one that looked to have been read a thousand times. The pink cover was so worn I had to open it to see what it was. National Velvet.
“I like horses,” she said.
“I can see that.”
“A lot.”
“I can’t seem to divine the system of the organisation; it doesn’t seem to be age or alphabet.”
“It’s the order I read them.”
I looked down the hall. There were several thousand books, at least.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Was the Necronomicon before National Velvet, or after.”
“Before,” she said, “I didn’t learn to read until I was ten; I didn’t learn human language till I was eight, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and Charles-Francois was only interested in teaching me about magic, so I had to read all the Eldritch books. Fulvia gave me the horse books. She thought a girl should be interested in things other than magic facts and rituals.”
“So she suggested horses?”
“Not at first; she brought me all sorts of books about different things; I like horses. They remind me of Wyverns.”
I didn’t see the connection, but I supposed she must have a reason for it.
“How are they like Wyverns?”
“You ride them, and they’re very gentle.”
“I’ve never heard of a gentle Wyvern, but then I’ve never met one.”
“They’re gentle if you’re the right sort of person. If you have a good philosophy. Just like horses.”
“I can imagine that, I suppose. I’ve seen them but never ridden them. Horses, I mean.”
“Neither have I. You’d think I would’ve. I’d like to ride one. But they can’t fly.”
“A Pegasus can fly.”
“That’s true, but they don’t exist, which is sad if you think about it. But then, if they could fly, the universe might get out of whack. There isn’t ‘sposed to be that much elegance in one creature.”
“There’s a sort of logic to that,” I said.
Thea pursed her lips and stroked her heart-shaped chin as she scanned the bookshelf. “I have one written by Fulvia actually.”
“About horses?”
“No silly,” she said. “Fulvia used to be a professor.”
“Oh, of what?”
“Philosophy, she gave a lecture at Oxford in the 1930s, which I’m sure someone from England would find impressive.”
“I — did not expect to learn that.”
I had to admit it was surprising. I felt a little shallow for thinking so. Fulvia gave the distinct impression of — well — a bimbo. Her use of glamour to enhance herself was obvious.
It was also very appealing to me. I delight in the innocent vanities of a lady, they are wholesome to a point, so long as she is not mean-spirited with her gifts. Being pretty gives one a natural entitlement, it takes a lot of work to be easy on the eyes. Such ladies are like a visual vacation and should be lauded for their efforts. Occasionally one encounters a woman who wishes to be attractive for her own selfish reasons; which I find insufferable. If one is to be an attention whore, one should be inclusively so.
“What kind of philosophy?”
Thea picked out a slender blue volume with gold lettering. “She created her own school of Philosophy, though I don’t think it really caught on.”
“You’d think that would have made her exceedingly popular. As far as I know, she would be one of only two in history,” I said.
“It didn’t have a very catchy name I guess or was too — bleak. She called it Apoptotism.” Thea handed me the book. “Be careful, it’s an oneirotic tome.”
“You mean, it’s enchanted to — immerse the reader?”
“Yeah. Honestly, it’s a bit dull. I had to read it. Not that I disagree with her. But philosophy is really boring.”
I secured the small tome inside the breast of my waistcoat, deeply curious about its contents. I had only ever read one oneirotic tome, which had been a terrifying experience.
Thea and I continued the tour. My room was to be opposite hers and was filled with old furniture. All the rooms had large windows facing out onto the Boulevard de Strausbourg or the Rue Pouzonville. Across the street was a blue sign that read Banque Populaire.
"Bring your own." Thea waved at the tattered furniture in the room. “Junk this stuff.” Many of the chairs and tables were missing legs, which I assumed had gone to feed the fireplace.
Under the large window was a rusted radiator. I turned the knob to activate it. The steel pipes which ran along the wall above the baseboard groaned as they filled with pressure.
“I suppose fireplace it is then.” I turned it off.
“Yeah, I can’t afford to hire a plumber right now. Is that a sticking point?”
“Not at all; I prefer a crackling fire.”
“Me too. It reminds me of Glow Worms.”
“Ah, I don’t see the connection, I’m afraid.”
“The language of Glow Worms sounds like a crackling fire to me.”
“I didn’t realise they had a language. I noticed you seem to speak Drow and Dwarvish. How many languages do you know, minus the language of birds, obviously.”
“Like living languages? Mainly those and Gorgon. I know some Elder tongues, too, for rituals.”
Maybe the rumours about her having a Gorgon nursemaid were true? I thought better of pressing the issue. I knew she had some degree of sensitivity to the rumours spoken about her, and I didn’t think it very useful to know either way.
“Only Drow, Dwarvish, Glow Worm, and Gorgon? How disappointing, and here I thought you must be some supernatural polyglot.”
“So funny, hur hur. I didn’t try to learn them, I just grew up around people who spoke them, and it rubbed off.”
“I’m envious.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Wait, how did you grow up around people who speak Gorgon? Forgive me for asking if it’s too personal, but — ”
“Oh, I guess that rumour is kind of true. I was raised by a Gorgon, after my mother died.” Thea had a very sharp look to her face, and there was a subtle slump in her shoulders when she mentioned her mother.
I wasn’t about to poke further into that hornet’s nest. It must have been very hard to lose one’s mother so young. I suppose I could relate in a sense. I had retroactively lost my mother, or at least that’s how it felt. When you realise they never wanted you it sort of recasts your entire life as that of an emotional orphan. I wouldn’t dare suggest it’s the same as being an actual orphan though.
We navigated the stairs back down to the bottom floor. My hooves click-clacked as we descended. Back in the foyer, we walked a tour of the shop area. There was a large waiting room that I assumed Thea would use for consulting. There was a small receptionist’s nook and several smaller rooms that would do for a workshop and storage. One of the rooms had a dentist’s chair with a large overhead light. It was aged but could be made to function and would be useful for fine engraving work.
“The rent is 400 Euros a piece, to be paid on the first of the month,” she said.
I pondered the offer; it was unusually fair. Sorcerers still used old gold and silver coinage. 400 Euros was something like 20 francs. The favourable exchange rate would allow me to invest more in my business. I couldn't believe my luck. I’m not sure I deserved it, which made me feel rather guilty all over again.
I extended my hand to her. “If you can overlook my flaws, I would take the rooms.”
“Deal if you can promise me the same.”
“I shall endeavour to overlook your sundry imperfections. Of course, one does have an obligation to charity.”
She almost laughed. I was developing a sense of her subdued, emotional expressions.
“Capital Suur,” she smacked her lips, mocking me, “now don’t let me keep you from running about rogering freshmen with lewbed cricket bats. Belts off and trousers down, boys. And don’t forget to send us a copy of your memwahrs about your days at Eaton.”
It was my turn to laugh. We shook hands firmly, as roommates.