“Nerys?” Sciona said in surprise. “I didn’t think she’d be re-elected.”
“She will be,” Bringham said with the confidence of someone who knew this beyond a doubt. “I know it’s not what the press has said, but she’s done a great deal to placate some of the more radical special interests groups while giving her full support to the projects that are most important to the Magistry. The Mage Council won’t let her lose her seat any time soon.”
Sciona didn’t ask how the Mage Council could ensure the results of a public election. She knew the full answer was probably more complex than she had time to contemplate, and the gist of it was clear enough: the body that controlled the clergy spoke for God Himself, which went a long way when it came to informing the will of the people.
“Overall, there won’t be much change to the City Council this election cycle,” Bringham continued, “except Amfre losing his seat to Perramis.”
“Oh…”
“What is it?” Bringham asked, clearly noticing the shadow that came over Sciona’s face.
“That’s my…” Sciona shook her head, remembering the second reason she had so persistently ignored news of this particular election. “Never mind.”
She hadn’t spared a thought for her father in the last twenty-some years. Feryn damn her if she was going to start now. Pushing Perramis out of mind, where he belonged, she changed the subject.
“I was just thinking—why would the archmages worry about Nerys?” Sure, Nerys was a vocal advocate for women’s rights, but her power didn’t extend to the university. “She isn’t involved in decisions that affect the Magistry. Why would the Mage Council worry about her opinion?”
“They wouldn’t. But it’s the story Archmages Renthorn and Duris are going with, and they have the best relationship with the press, so…” Bringham shrugged. “Apologies, my dear. If I’d spent more of my career schmoozing, I might be able to counter them in that arena, make this easier for you. But alas!”
“If you’d spent more of your career schmoozing, you probably wouldn’t have written as many of my favorite books, and I wouldn’t have applied for a position in your lab.” Sciona smiled. “I think it all worked out, sir.”
“Indeed.” Bringham clasped her shoulder. “I’ll see you at work then, Highmage Freynan.”
On the train home, Alba chattered excitedly, but all Sciona could hear was Archmage Bringham’s voice earnestly saying, “Highmage Freynan.” She clutched tight to the sound and echoed it to herself all the way home.
Highmage Freynan.
Highmage Freynan.
Highmage Freynan.
She saw the letters on the spine of a book and beside it, in gold, all the things she was going to be to this city:
… First Woman of the High Magistry
… Pioneer of the Freynan Method
… The Woman who Expanded the Barrier
“Witches, beasts, and all manner of wicked beings massed in their thousands in the basin that was to be Tiran, and great was our fear. But Lord Leon went before his mages and spake thusly: Do not fear the forces of darkness, for God who promised us this land is with us, and His Will is Light. When you go against the tribes of the enemy, hold your staff before you as a torch and watch the unclean fall to the Light of Truth.”
- The Tirasid, Trials, Verse 109 （56 of Tiran）
AUNT WINNY WOULDN’T let her niece go at the door. Every time Sciona tried to start down the stairs, those work-worn hands would drag her back to smooth her skirts, straighten the white robe on her shoulders, make sure her hair twists in front were just so.
“Auntie,” Sciona laughed. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
“You’re still my little girl.”
“You keep fussing with my hair. You know I chopped it off specifically so that no fussing would be required.” Well, that and the fact that it made her fit in better with the university’s mostly male research mages, but that wasn’t the kind of thing Aunt Winny wanted to hear.
“I just want you to look nice for your first day in case you meet a man.”
“They’re all men, Auntie, and I don’t plan to spend that much time socializing with them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Aunt Winny batted Sciona on the shoulder. “You’re too old to be dragging your feet with these things!” Never mind that she had been saying this since Sciona was about seventeen. “I want little grandnieces and nephews. All that talent you have. You must pass it on.”
That was the thing Aunt Winny never understood: Sciona hadn’t cultivated her talent so her husband could take the credit for it and his sons could reap the benefits she hadn’t enjoyed.
“You know, on a highmage’s pay, I will have enough to buy my own apartment and get out of your hair, husband or none.”
“You talk!” Aunt Winny smacked Sciona’s shoulder again. “My precious niece live all alone, a spinster? I won’t have it!” She was only half joking. Bringham had paid Sciona enough to move out several times over by now; she just knew that the thought of her living on her own would drive her aunt up the wall with worry. Winny didn’t think Sciona would take care of herself—which Sciona had to concede was a fair point, considering how often she forgot to eat or wash her hair. “Your excuse has always been that you can’t find a man as smart as you. Now’s your chance.”
In the name of getting out the damn door, Sciona relented and lied, “For you, Auntie, I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s my girl!”
Unfortunately, even beyond the door of the apartment, Aunt Winny wasn’t finished slowing Sciona down.
“Miss Freynan, look at you!” the elderly neighbors exclaimed from their balcony as she reached the bottom of the apartment steps. “Making history! Congratulations!”
Alba’s boss at Finn’s Clock and Radio Repair waved enthusiastically from behind the counter as Sciona passed the shop window.
“Your auntie must be so proud!” beamed a Kwen woman pushing a cart of flowers and sweets.
Sciona had never cultivated relationships with any of these people; on a good day, she barely remembered their names. Aunt Winny was the one who went out of her way to attend every wedding and naming ceremony, to hand-deliver holiday gifts all down the block, to lend an ear wherever there was a neighbor in distress. These people loved Aunt Winny, so they were happy for Sciona—and every Blighted one of them had to stop and tell her so.
“Sciona!” The baker’s son jogged after her. “I told you, I knew you could do it! Congratulations!”
“Oh. Thank you”—Alba had reminded Sciona of his name just last week, damn it—“Ansel.”
“My parents made you these.” The young man shoved a covered basket of pastries into her arms. “Be sure to save some of the lemon ones for your aunt.”
“Thank you,” Sciona muttered again awkwardly, then fully recalled last week’s train ride and said, “Didn’t you already give us scones?”
Ansel lit up. “Oh, you did get to them! You looked so busy. I wondered if I was just being a bother.”