It was already dusk when they arrived at Westwick, the city where Claves Academy was located. Unlike in Elysia, Clara saw little magic as she looked out the carriage window. The part they passed through was mostly townhouses, with the odd shop or inn along the way. Honestly, this could pass for a small European city.

  When they reached the campus grounds, Iris dismissed the company of knights that had escorted them—apparently it was a larger security detail than usual, as the duke was extra wary because of some instability in the north.

  The carriages stopped in front of a wide stone building that looked almost like a cross between a mansion and a hotel. Clara stepped down from the coach and helped Iris, who took her hand with grace. Emma came down from the second carriage.

  “Emma, this is Ashford Hall. The dormitory for noble ladies,” said Iris, looking at Clara. This was clearly an explanation for her benefit, not Emma’s; Iris must’ve been trying to be considerate of her ‘memory loss’.

  Ivy crept up the four-story walls in controlled spirals, surrounding dozens of tall windows with diamond-paned glass. Clara could see the flicker of lamps behind some of them as students settled in for the evening.

  Iris walked up the steps leading to the entrance, which featured a grand stone archway carved with ‘Veritas et Virtus’—Truth and Virtue. Clara waved the porters over, and together with Emma, they began unloading the first of what would be many trips’ worth of luggage. Goddess, please let Iris’s room be on the first floor.

  With bags in tow, the porters and maids followed Iris into the dormitory. They were greeted by a large lounge with several sets of sofas, chairs, and desks. An ornate crystal chandelier hung—no, floated—above, and a white carpet emblazoned with golden key patterns covered the floor. On the back, there was a set of twin staircases leading to the upper floors. Clara almost felt a bit giddy; it was exactly how it’d been described in the original story.

  Several groups of ladies lounged about the lobby, enjoying a lazy Sunday evening while chatting with their peers over tea. But when they noticed Iris, the chatter turned into whispers and hushed glances.

  “Second-years are on the third floor. My suite is at the end of the east wing—the best views, naturally,” said Iris, ignoring the other students.

  Clara sighed. And so began her and Emma’s long evening of carrying up Iris’s trunks.

  The sound of hurried footsteps and clanging metal utensils woke Clara up before dawn. Her back and arms ached—she was still mad at the staircases and all the luggage—so she stretched herself in bed.

  She glanced at the bed on the other side of her room. Despite the noise, Emma was still fast asleep. Her soft, freckled face reminded Clara of some of her little cousins. A sense of longing spread through Clara’s chest, and she let her fellow servant sleep, for now.

  The girl was fifteen, she’d learned—only a year younger than Iris—and they always said teenagers need more sleep than adults. Plus, Emma would have her work cut out for her during Iris’s classes, when Clara would be busy studying. The least Clara could do was ensure she got some extra rest in the morning.

  Clara changed into her usual maid attire and exited the room, closing the door carefully behind her. The servant’s quarters at Ashford Hall were on the west wing of the first floor, next to the kitchen, where the academy’s cooks had been hard at work to prepare several breakfast options for the noble students.

  There was a light meal set aside for the servants, too: bread, butter, porridge, and even some cheese… and what is that paste on the side? It smells like… fish? To say that Clara Casewell disliked seafood was an understatement, yet she felt oddly drawn to the brown fish paste. She spread some of it on bread and concluded that it was delicious. After she finished relishing the first truly enjoyable meal she’d had in this world, she took a tray and filled it with tea, milk buns, strawberry jam, and cold cuts for Iris.

  Then she went out into the lounge, where many more students than last night were eating breakfast. Probably the lower nobles who couldn’t afford a personal maid, she wagered. As if confirming her theory, she saw Lady Helena sharing a meal with two other girls. There was only a hint of undue paleness to her face; she looked quite a bit better than during the trial, when she’d worn a sickly, unhealthy glow.

  Thankfully, Helena didn’t seem to have noticed her, so Clara made her way to the stairs. As expected of any gathering of teenage girls, Clara overheard lots of gossip as she wove her way through the tables. Surprisingly, none of it seemed to involve Iris. Perhaps news of the broken engagement hadn’t gone public yet.

  “—her dress at the party was exactly the same as Lady Stratton’s—”

  “Did you see the look on her face?”

  “—what was Forrest thinking, confessing to her of all—”

  “Did he hear about it—”

  She climbed the unfortunately familiar stairs up to the third floor and found Iris’s room on the east wing. After knocking softly, she pushed the doors open. Iris was still fast asleep, which wasn’t surprising, as her usual wake-up time at the villa was quite a bit later than when she’d be expected to be up for class.

  Clara set the breakfast on a small table at the center of the suite—which looked exactly like what she’d seen while under the truth spell—then moved next to Iris.

  “My lady,” she whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Lady Iris,” she whispered again, a bit louder this time.

  Iris’s response was to burrow deeper into her silk sheets.

  “My lady, you have classes this morning.” Clara wasn’t whispering anymore. “It’s time to wake up.”

  “No,” came the muffled reply.

  “But your—”

  “I am Iris von Rhenia, daughter of Duke Maximilian von Rhenia.” The words were barely audible through the sheets and the pillow covering her head. “And I decree that mornings are hereby abolished.”

  Clara bit back a smile. “I don’t think that’s within your family’s jurisdiction, my lady.”

  Iris finally pulled the covers down, sighing dramatically. “Why must you torture me so, Clara?”

  “Consider it retribution for last night.”

  At that, Iris finally smiled. “I suppose that’s fair.”

  She got up from bed with all the enthusiasm of an intern who’d been pulled into an all-nighter. Then she made her way to the table and took a bite of the bread.

  “What is my schedule for the day?”

  “Let’s see…” Clara reached for the paper atop the study desk in the corner of the suite. “You’ll start with Arcadian History with Professor Harwick.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Ugh,” Iris groaned. “I should’ve stayed in bed. Harwick is an old bore who would hardly notice if I were late. Do I have Professor Morris today?”

  “Unfortunately not, my lady.” Clara remembered from the original story that Fundamentals of Magic with Professor Morris was one of Iris’s favorite lectures.

  “Oh!” Iris’s eyes lit up. “You should speak to him, Clara.”

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “Professor Morris. I remember him mentioning he’d gotten approval from the Church to do some research into memory magic. He might know how to help you! If he’s not teaching today, perhaps he’ll be at his office?”

  Memory magic… would that even be able to help me, given I’m not Stella? Or would it expose me for who I actually am? And that aside, even if he could help her, would a Claves professor even want to aid an unknown servant who randomly stopped by his door?

  Still, going to talk to him couldn’t hurt.

  After finishing getting Iris ready for her first class, Clara woke up Emma and helped her get started on the day’s chores. Once she was satisfied that the girl knew what to do, Clara left Ashford Hall and made her way across the academy grounds. The campus was larger than she’d expected, with its sprawling stone buildings connected by covered walkways and manicured gardens. Students in matching British-style navy uniforms hurried past her, barely sparing a glance for a servant.

  She found the faculty building after asking for directions twice. Professor Morris’s office was on the second floor, tucked away at the end of a corridor lined with portraits of stern-looking academics—men and women, Clara noted. The door was ajar, and Clara could hear someone muttering inside.

  She knocked, but there was no response. She opened the door a little more and peered inside. It was a large room, with tall windows at the back, bookshelves on either side, and a wide, rectangular desk in the center. Yet its contents were far from organized, and the piles of tomes, papers, parchment, and other trinkets scattered across the floor and the desk made the place feel tiny.

  Professor Morris stood with his back to her. He wore a grey vest with a checkered scarf around his neck, and his light blue hair went down past his shoulders. He appeared to be chanting while holding some sort of wooden staff.

  “Ex umbris in luce.” The crystal at the tip of his staff glowed with a faint violet light. “Ex umbris in luce. Ex umbris in—”

  The light flickered, then dimmed. The professor sighed.

  Then the light came back. It was soft for a moment, then grew blindingly bright, and Clara heard a pop. She hid herself behind the door as a wave of force rippled outward from the staff, creating a mess of swirling papers and books.

  The professor stumbled backward. “Desine!” he shouted, and the energy ceased, with multiple thuds as the books hit the floor. “Oh, blast it all! Third time today! What am I doing wrong? Why doesn’t it move?!”

  Clara reopened the door cautiously. The office looked like the site of a small tornado.

  “You should try lucem, Professor.”

  “Goodness!” He spun around, eyes wide, and she could finally see his face. He looked to be a bit older than Clara, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “How long have you been standing there? Are you hurt? I really must remember to lock the door, at least during my experiments,” he said.

  “I’m fine, Professor. But I think I might know what went wrong with your spell.”

  He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your incantation. You said ‘ex umbris in luce’. But luce is ablative: from shadows, in the light. It’s static.” Clara stepped carefully over a fallen hourglass; fortunately, it hadn’t broken. “If you’re trying to move something, you need the accusative case, ‘ex umbris in lucem’—from shadows, into the light.”

  Out of all her college professors, she didn’t expect Professor Joachim of Legal Latin to be the one to help her out in her new life. The old man had always ranted about how the ‘new generation’ of students didn’t respect the classics, and how Latin was essential for any good lawyer. Clara, like most of her classmates, had always groaned at it, yet here she was. My bad, Professor.

  Professor Morris stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, his eyes somewhat unfocused. Then he grinned. “I’m not sure what you mean by ablative and accusative here, but I’ve never been averse to experimenting.”

  He turned around and raised his staff.

  “Ex umbris in lucem.”

  The crystal glowed again, but this time it was steadier, without flickering. There was a rustle, then a rasp of metal against wood, and a silver object shot up from between the floorboards into Professor Morris’s outstretched hand.

  “Aha! My glasses!” He placed them atop his nose. “Finally, I can see again! I dropped them this morning and couldn’t get them out from under the floor.” He looked as if he were about to cry with happiness. “This is why peer review is essential, even when the peer is—” he turned his gaze back to her “—a domestic servant who wandered into my office uninvited.”

  She bowed her head slightly. “Clara Casewell, Professor. I’m Lady Iris von Rhenia’s maid. My apologies for the intrusion.”

  “Ah, young Lady Iris. Keen mind, terrible attitude.” He grabbed his pen, dipped it in a pot of ink, and started writing something at a frantic pace. “But where did a maid learn the Sacred Tongue? Does the von Rhenia household provide magic lessons between tea services?”

  “Nothing of the sort, unfortunately. Yet they have a vast library, and Lady Iris is kind enough to allow me to make use of it,” said Clara.

  “I suppose such a storied noble house would have gathered its fair share of tomes. Perhaps I should request some of them from Lady Iris the next I see her.” He pushed his glasses up. “I am Emmet Morris. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Casewell. Now, what brings you here?”

  Clara closed the door before answering. “I’ve been experiencing some… gaps in memory,” she said carefully. “After a recent incident. Lady Iris thought you might be able to help.”

  “Gaps, you say?” Morris was already rummaging through the papers on the floor, somehow making the mess worse. “What kind of gaps? Specific events? General knowledge? Procedural memory—that’s things like how to tie your shoes, very interesting stuff—”

  “Long-term gaps, mostly. There’s much I should remember, but don’t. Events, people, places.”

  “I see, I see.” He rummaged through a stack of books. “Now, Emmet, where did you put that…” Eventually, he seemed to find what he was looking for: a leather-bound notebook, which he began to flip through rapidly.

  “You may not know this, Miss Casewell, but the Church claims a monopoly on memory magic. It’s a delicate thing, very dramatic, very dangerous—they mostly use it for the Blessing of Truth.”

  So the truth spell is a type of memory magic. That didn’t surprise her. And it gave her hope that the professor might be able to help unlock Stella’s memories, just like the Blessing of Truth could.

  “Luckily, I’ve managed to get permission from them to do some limited research into the subject. It’s all terribly bureaucratic, but as thanks for your help today, I can at least examine you. Please, take a seat.”

  Clara carefully relocated a stack of journals from atop a wooden chair and sat down.

  “How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

  “Almost two weeks, Professor.”

  He scribbled in his notebook while he spoke. “And what was the incident that started it?”

  She grimaced. “An… illness. You might say I had a brush with death.”

  “An illness? You haven’t been consorting with any rogue mages, have you, Miss Casewell? The soul is a delicate thing, and tampering with memories can have devastating side effects.”

  “Not that I remember,” Clara said dryly.

  Morris let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, that’s good! Memory humor! I shall have to remember that one.”

  He put down his notebook and grabbed his staff. “Now, let me have a look at you.”

  Clara held her breath. Hopefully, this goes better than his last spell.

  “Aperiantur oculi mentis,” he chanted, and his eyes began to glow with an intense yellow. “Hmm. This is quite peculiar. I’ve never seen something like this—I don’t sense any magical energy from you.” His gaze was much more intense, as if he were not looking at her but peering into her.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, the Church teaches that all living beings are born with a certain capacity for magic, granted to them by the Goddess. Most people have just a small ember of magic power, while some have vast fountains.” He narrowed his eyes. “But I’ve never heard of someone who has nothing.”

  Could it be that she wouldn’t ever be able to use magic? Goddess, I swear to you, if you’ve brought me to a fantasy world where I can’t use magic, I’m going to need to have a word with your supervisor!

  “Fascinating.” He started scribbling again, even faster this time. “Magic power, memory, and life are intrinsically tied, meaning that without magic, there should be no way for your memories to set or even for you to be alive, really. Yet you quite clearly are, so how is—”

  The door burst open.

  Four men in white-and-gold armor, swords at their waists, filed into the office.

  “Professor Emmet Morris,” the first one announced sternly. His cold gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Clara before returning to the professor. “We are detaining you on suspicion of illegal use of memory magic and creation of a Memory Void.”

  Morris’s hands were trembling, but his voice remained steady. “This is absurd. I have full authorization for my research. And who are you claiming I inflicted a Memory Void on? I’d never do something so heinous.”

  “The victim is one of your students, Forrest Lorne. Church officials have confirmed his condition,” said the knight.

  “What?” The professor went pale. “Forrest has a Memory Void? No… That can’t be… He was fine—”

  “You’ll have to come with us to the garrison for questioning, Professor. The Blessing of Truth shall reveal your sins.”

  Today's chapter is dedicated to my old Latin professor from college. I'm sorry for thinking I'd never use your class.