Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Rows of glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, greeting Fabrisse as he entered. Each cabinet was filled with specimens cradled in velvet-lined cradles: spheres of rose quartz, glinting shards of tourmaline, whole geodes with their hearts split open to reveal glittering interiors. Every label was written in the same elegant, slanted hand, the ink brown with age but perfectly legible.

This wasn’t the Montreals’ main residence. He’d passed only a butler at the door and two servants in the halls, their presence more for upkeep than society. The space looked curated, so it was probably an auxiliary home. And judging from the cabinets and the climate wards, it seemed dedicated less to comfort than to research.

Fabrisse took two slow steps inside and almost forgot to breathe. This private collection was almost on par with the specimen archives in the Synod laboratories. Not specialized for rocks, no; but the arrangement, the climate wards, even the quality of the preservation cases were unmistakably professional. Whoever had curated this had known exactly what they were doing.

“Why are you standing there? Come in,” Severa said as she walked past him. When she turned around and he still hadn’t moved, she said, “I hope you don’t just stand still and gawk like this in your lab work.”

Fabrisse shut his mouth, which he hadn’t realized was slightly open, and stepped fully inside. His fingers itched to run over the nearest case, to test the seal on the brass fittings, to see if the imprint resonance matched the ones in the Synod, but ultimately decided to keep his hands behind his back.

A central table stood under a suspended brass lightframe, its surface scattered with jeweler’s tools, small resonance gauges, and a half-disassembled aether lens.

Severa slipped a hand into her robe and brought out the quartz. “What do you need?” she asked.

He stepped closer, studying the stone. The milky veins on the quartz still looked as mesmerizing as the first time he saw it. “To emulate sub-zero conditions. Aetheric catalysts, if possible. And . . .” He trailed off, eyes flicking toward the climate wards in the room. “. . . stabilization lattice, if we want to avoid shattering the imprint before it’s released.”

“We might have that,” Severa said without hesitation.

“You sound very sure.”

Severa crossed the room toward a long cabinet, glancing at the brass labels. Kestovar followed. In the end, they found only two of the catalysts he’d listed, and the stabilization lattice was of an older design.

He straightened, holding one of the small crystalline ampoules to the light. “It’s not perfect, but I can make do.”

As he set out the tools, he hesitated again, glancing toward her. “I should warn you—this . . . I’ve never done it in practice before.”

“That is fine,” Severa said without missing a beat. “If you fail, we’ll just train you until you succeed.” ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ noᴠelfire.net

Who are these ‘we’? Kestovar stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing whether that was meant to be encouragement or a threat. He still didn’t know by the time he looked back down at the quartz.

It’s definitely a quartz; no doubt there. He thought, But that pale, almost glacial hue . . . no common quartz I know matches it. Not rose quartz, nor smoky quartz. Maybe something akin to those deep-mountain glacier quartz formations—like those rare blue quartz variants found only beneath the ice sheets in the Northern Mounts?

This quartz must have formed under extreme cold, deep glaciers or permafrost layers. That’s why it’s so rare here. The climate’s all wrong for natural formation.

How did Montreal get it?