Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

“Fabrisse! Did you really insult Severa Montreal in front of half the student body?” Celine’s voice cracked three different ways as she stormed into the Eastern Training Field (not to be mistaken with the Eastern Target Field), clutching her bookpack like a shield.

Fabrisse jolted at the mention of Severa’s name. “What? No! How did you even know about that?” From his memory, there weren’t even more than three other students present in the classroom, and their conversation should have been at a reasonable volume that others couldn’t easily eavesdrop on.

“I run the local news!” She flung her arms around. “I have tipsters. One of them just happened to be there.”

“Your tipsters should get the facts right . . .”

“The fact is that . . . you were super brave. Some of us hate Montreal, you know, but none has ever said it to her face. I support you on a personal level. But you should get yourself a council pleader.”

“I don’t need courtroom defense just because I said something.”

“I heard you called her tutors evil. Technically, that can be grounds for defamation. You know her father sued other people for less, right?” Celine arched her brow. “I don’t think he’s ever actually won those stupid cases, but he’s dragged them out long enough that the other people ended up broke, miserable, and eating porridge for a year.”

Fabrisse gulped. Maybe he had really made a terrible impulsive decision back there.

“I don’t think the daughter Montreal has ever cared about anyone else enough to go out of her way to make their life miserable, so, uh, you’re in luck, I guess? You have to be a really special case for her to even remember your name.”

Not sure if I like that kind of special.

So her network of tipsters didn’t know about the butler’s butler incident. Severa definitely did mess with him.

“Are you only here to pry more information out of me?” Fabrisse asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, yeah! I wanna hear your side of the story.”

“There wasn’t much to the story . . .”

Celine leaned closer to Fabrisse. “Look, if you really want me to drop it, I will. But you’ve got to admit—this is the kind of thing that makes headlines. Even if you don’t talk, people will just make up their own version. Wouldn’t you rather I print yours?”

Fabrisse groaned, rubbing his temples. “No. I’d rather you print nothing.”

“Well, okay, but think about it—” Celine abruptly stopped speaking as the ground beneath her feet dampened. She jolted, the tip of her boots sinking a fraction into the stone that had somehow turned to slightly looser grit before she yanked her foot out.