Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

They had been in the eastern hallway during the afternoon, and now they were here again. This rooftop was the only place where they could be truly alone. Almost nothing else would be present here, save for the wide expanse of tiles stretching beneath them, granting them a space that felt impossibly big for just the two of them.

Liene’s fatigue seemed to vanish the moment she lay her back against the cool tile and gazed upward, letting the sky swallow every trace of the day.

“Look! That star cluster looks like a spilled basket of apples.” Liene pointed from where she sprawled on the roof tiles. Her hair was no longer in its tight bun but had fallen into a messy bunch, strands escaping everywhere as if the night itself had tugged it loose. The lantern they’d smuggled up cast a low circle of amber, but beyond that the sky stretched vast and velvet. The lantern’s glow thinned before it reached her, so her carefully curled hair seemed to melt straight into the night, as though the stars had claimed the loose strands for themselves.

Fabrisse followed Liene’s gesture. He didn’t see apples, just scatterings of light, patterns that refused to arrange themselves into anything sensible. Still, her voice carried so much certainty that for a moment, he almost believed it. Also, she’d studied star-mapping last term, an elective tucked under Light Thaumaturgy, if he remembered right, and frankly a complete waste of time. Who needed to know the difference between the Crown of Asteriel and the Archer’s Knot when you had perfectly functional charts?

But Liene had a knack for making even useless things sound important.

“Did you know . . .” she traced invisible arcs across the sky, “that constellation readers—proper astromancers, I mean—make a ridiculous amount of money on the side?” She giggled. “Not court wages, but enough to live well. Farmers ask them to check planting days, sailors consult them for safe crossings, even betrothals get scheduled when the stars are in favorable harmony. It’s because aetheric currents really do shift with the alignments, you know. Aether pours through certain constellations when they crest the horizon, and if you know how to read that, you can catch the flow. The effect when the celestial flow reaches us might be minimal, but not negligible.”

If it really mattered that much how stars from eons away could influence one’s luck, Fabrisse reckoned readers would’ve made a lot more money.

Fabrisse tilted his head back, squinting at the brightest point in the sky. “So . . . you’re basically saying the stars decide when people get lucky?”

Liene shrugged, letting her arms splay across the cool tiles. “Not exactly. Just that if you notice them, sometimes it feels like they do. It’s more . . . opportunity alignment than fate. But that’s beside the point.” She glanced at him sideways, and the smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she tucked it back in place.

“There’s another point?” He thought they were just hanging out, talking about random stuff, star clusters, astromancy, nothing serious.

Liene shrugged again, but this time her shoulders tensed slightly. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just like getting you to actually look up instead of staring at your feet all the time.”

For a long moment, they lay side by side in silence. Fabrisse felt the weight of expectation, the quiet urgency behind her casual tone, but he didn’t know why. Why would there be any expectation? For what?

“Fabrisse,” she suddenly called his name.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever . . . feel bored?”

“Of what?”

“Of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t have much in common, you see. I like stars, constellations, poetry. You know; the abstract.” She had shifted onto her side, propping her head on one elbow so she could look up at him. Strands of hair fell freely over her shoulder, and one of her arms draped casually across her hip. “You like things that are measurable.”

“We don’t have to like the same things to be friends,” he said.

“That’s true, but . . . Sometimes I just don’t know what to talk to you about. You don’t really talk much, and you seem, well . . .” She rubbed her cheek with her knuckles. “Disinterested sometimes.”

Disinterested? He had never thought of himself that way. From his perspective, he was paying attention. He just didn’t chatter for the sake of it, and he didn’t fill silences with noise. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ NovєlFіre.net

Liene’s fingers grasped her knees. “I really appreciate you opening up today. I wish you could do so more often. It’s just . . .” She paused, biting at the inside of her cheek. “I guess it’s just a me problem. You didn’t ask me to keep on thinking about what you may or may not think of me.”

For a brief second, he noticed pine-green sparks of anxiety, barely visible. Liene shifted as she tucked a stray strand over them, immediately obscuring them from view. This way of talking; this mannerism; he had seen this behavior from her enough to know she was about to say something she deemed important.

Liene’s face had softened into a tentative expression. She pressed her lips together, the corners tilting down in a small frown as her shoulders drew up.

“Maybe I’m just boring to you or something,” she said.

It was always her talent to say things he had no immediate answer to.

He thought for a moment and said, “You’re not boring. You’re . . . complex. And star clusters are more complex than single points of light. Also, your hair is asymmetrical, which is scientifically interesting, and you moved your weight slightly to the left when you tucked your hair over your ear, which indicates a . . . nervous micro-adjustment.” Sacred socks no, stop babbling. This isn’t even on topic. “And, if you count constellations, I’m fairly certain the pattern of your stars is more engaging than any random conversation I could force. So . . . not boring. Just observationally complex.”

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“You’re saying you’re more boring than me.” She smiled.

“Possibly.”

“Well, maybe I like the boring,” she said. Then her gaze drifted toward the far-off glow of the Township of Aurelienth. It must be the tenth bell already, and he could still see the lights from the faraway town, rivalling the stars like two twinkling knights charging into one another. It really was the town that never slept.

It was a cool place, if not a bit tiring. He remembered the one time he had visited that town and stumbled upon a tiny pastry shop tucked in a quiet corner. The pastry had been exquisite—flaky, buttery, and just the right amount of sweet—and for a brief moment, he could almost taste it again, the memory vivid enough to make his stomach rumble.

Liene’s voice pulled him back. “I’m a simple girl, Fabrisse. I like wandering aimlessly and running away from my responsibilities. You know, I’m a walking amalgamation of negative traits.” She drew in a long breath. “I don’t want this to feel like a giant waste of time to you, so I . . . I figure I’ll make it quick.”

He froze at the sound of his name. Fabrisse. Not Fabri.

She’s been nervous until now. She’s calling me by my actual name. He told himself to stop thinking about pastries. She may be saying something he wouldn’t want to miss.