Chương 17: Chapter 15 ~ Notes on the 27th Dialogue

01/11/1111 EotTS 11: 00 Bored, bored, the Operative Alchemy class had started a boring hour ago, and it was boring, boring —boring! The stand-in for Professor Hleenska was a thin, younger man, with dirty-blonde hair, light brown eyes, a round face like a wheel of cheese, and a suit far too large to fit him, but perfectly fit for his role.

He had introduced himself as Tithrynn Herokh (he put Professor in front of that, but nobody was falling for that sophistry) but his name was largely irrelevant, as there was no point in remembering the substitute teacher: no one ever remembered the substitute teacher, except for that old hag with the ruler that knew how to swing it like a blacksmith did his hammer—it is hard to write neater when you hit the writing hand with the ruler, what happened to her?

Gods, she was more wrinkly than a flounced cuff, could she still be alive? probably not, but if she is, she will not be for much longer, and hopefully the Ledger uses that ruler for more than crossing out her name—twack, twack, twack! Tithrynn (in his own words) had been chosen from the second-year student body by the Headmaster to fill in for Hleenska; this did not give him the credit he thought it did; Hleenska was not the one who selected him, and this made him a phoney fill-in.

Since class had begun, Tithrynn had been pacing, back and forth, hither and thither, across the hardwood speaking floor, adding more wear to the already threadbare stain of the planks, and adjusting his jacket as it slowly slid from his shoulders over, and over again, this led to a whole hour being wasted going over what they would be covering through out the three semesters of two maiden each, and none of it was new: make a vegetable block? done, years ago; separate silver from lead using cupellation?

done as well, in the backyard (while Mother and Father were away, of course, Mother would become hysterical if she saw the burns; a well-learned lesson that gloves and winter-gloves cannot be used interchangeably as 'gloves').

He talked about what the projects would be: each had been taken from a book which had been worked through five years prior; a book which was on the dorm room shelves and filled with notes and observations, notes that would be sufficient answers for the projects, as well as the plan and log book he wanted turned in with them.

There was one, only one, reason to stay in this class (this specific class on the morning of the First of Mourna, not the class more broadly), aside from counting the number of bricks used to build the wall: the question period that was promised at the end—an opportunity to remind the phony fill-in that a perfect score is enough to not take a class, as there is nothing to be learned!

Alas, class dragged on and on, leaving no ending insight, and making picking lint from betwixt one's toes seem like a better, more productive use of time (the lint could be left out for birds, and they would use it to build beautiful nests).

Gysel checked her watch: the small bronze hour hand was pointed to the dot representing the eleventh hour, the larger bronze minute hand sat at zero—no, wait, it is moving, now it is at one—and the second hand was ticking away, like time, the moment one perceived the present second it was the past second, and six-thousand eighty-four seconds were now past seconds, past wasted seconds. Running a hand down her face, Gysel looked away from her watch, and back to Tithrynn.

"And for your final project," said Tithrynn as he made another lap around the speaking floor—he is going to ruin the bottom of those trousers if they keep dragging on the wood.

"Will be to write what you believe is the correct steps to take to turn lead to gold, chrysopoeia. It does not need to work; it just has to be what you think will work." That was the second-last dialogue of the textbook, and that was done too.

"Any Questions?" Smiling, Tithrynn swayed on his heels with his hands behind his back. Gysel raised her hand as fast as she could.

"Yes, Gysel?"

"I have seven-thousand points. If I cannot gain more points, why am I in this class? I am not on any of the other boards, and my time would be better spent studying other subjects."

"Your score is just an assumption made from what is known about your capabilities before arrival." His face twisted.

"It will fluctuate depending on how well you demonstrate your practical understanding on projects."

"I can do every single assignment already, I have done every single assignment already." Tithrynn wrapped his fingers around his thumb, and pulled his thumb out, making a popping noise. He stopped in the centre of the lecture hall. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"How about this, Gysel," he said with a huff.

"You have the next fourteen days to do the final project. If you do not score nine-hundred out of the one-thousand points, you will lose all seven-thousand of your points and be off the board. How does this sound?" There were murmurs throughout the hall, and Ardhy and Wyohla were looking at her with raised eyebrows; Lyvahn seemed entertained.

"All right." Gysel took her bookbag and headed for the door. Tithrynn spoke as soon as Gysel's hand was on the doorknob.

"Where do you think you're going? I'm not finished yet." Gysel looked back at him over her shoulder.

"I am getting the final project."

"What do you mean by getting?"

"I mean getting: to go somewhere and bring back something. I am going to my room, getting my paper on chrysopoeia, and I am going to bring it back here so I can turn it in and study something else." Gysel opened the door and stepped outside.

"You know—" The thick, walnut door shut with a thud, rattling the frosted window—how is he going to finish that sentence? probably: 'You know so much more than I, you should be teaching this class.' —snickering to herself, Gysel set off down the hall.

01/11/1111 EotTS 11: 19 Returning to the dorm, Gysel hurried to the bookshelf, which was now about a quarter full; this was due to the rampant use and abuse of 'Fifth-Floor-Privilege'; it was easy to pick up one (or two, or three, or maybe even four if the volumes were small enough) books from the academy bookstore every time it was passed. Gysel pushed the wooden ladder along its tracks from one end of the shelf to another, and it came to a squeaking stop.

She started up it, but stopped halfway—there is a soft knocking on the right window, tap, tap, tap, a woody tapping, tapping against the glass; a bird perhaps? Climbing down the ladder, Gysel headed to the window: it was Puppet-Cat; she let him in.

"Hello, Puppet-Cat," Gysel said. Puppet-Cat hopped from the windowsill to Gysel's bed. Turning to face her, he raised a paw—such a smart creature, look at him, he can wave, he thinks he is human.

"Are you making your rounds?" She squatted down to be at eye level with Puppet-Cat. Clockwise.

"I will not be here for very long. Do you want to stay when I leave?" Click—Click—Clockwise.

"I will leave the window open so you can leave when you want to." Gysel made her way back to the shelf.

"Just no touching Kawvel." Clockwise. Starting up the ladder, Gysel removed the book 'Twenty-Eight Dialogues on Operative Alchemy' by Gahlynteolst (people had much more interesting names a few thousand years ago: Gahlynteolst, meaning 'A Body like Stone' was infinitely more interesting than Gysel), from the 'G' section and climbed back down the ladder.

Placing it on the desk, she opened it and flipped through the pages, looking for the papers on turning lead into gold—it is the second last dialogue, the last being the remaining fragments on the Gahlyntimæ and its creation… flip, flip, flip… there they are, right where they should be, on the first page of the section dedicated to 'Chrysopoeia.' The pages were just as they had been left: ten pages, stained with tea and melted butter, held together by a copper clasp.

Removing the papers, Gysel headed back for the door.

"Goodbye, Puppet-Cat," She said as she put her shoes back on.

"I will be back shortly." He looked up from his spot on the bed, and gave a slow, languid clockwise turn.

01/11/1111 EotTS 11: 39 Putting the papers under her left arm, Gysel opened the lecture hall door; Tithrynn immediately stopped talking and glared at her, and the class went silent the moment Gysel crossed the threshold—staring, silently murmuring in their minds, but all their thoughts were loud enough that the defendant knows exactly what is being thought, hearing them echo across the walls and into the mind, the click of the sole severing one, and welcoming another: the execution of a fool, click, the death of a prestigious student who believed, click, someone whom at the young age of nearly-nineteen had, click, how?

how could someone find the answer who was not, click, on those papers? the steps to achieve the long desired goal of chrysopoeia, click, ludicrous it is impossible, not without the Gahlyntimæ... that last thought is correct, not without the Gahlyntimæ, that is where the steps stopped... probably... no, theoretically. Removing the papers from under her arm, she held them with outstretched arms, and she dropped them on the desk.

"They are all numbered, in case you drop them."

"You could have waited until after class." Tithrynn looked down on her, not once glancing at the papers—likely knowing he cannot handle what is contained within.

"I have studying to do," Gysel said as she back-stepped.

"When will you tell me I passed?"

"Excuse me?" Gysel moved to the side of the speaking floor, pressing herself against the blackboard, allowing him the room to pass.

"No," Tithrynn said, as his face grew to the same shade as the red wax that wraps cheese.

"Repeat what you said."

"When will you tell me I passed?" Gysel said this louder and slower than before, making sure the question was clear. He shook his head, then took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling.

"By the fifth." He spoke through his teeth.

"Excellent. Where can I pick the papers back up from?"

"The Headmaster's office."

"All right. I will see you then. Thank you!" Gysel left the silent classroom. 01/11/1111 EotTS 11: 51 When Gysel returned, Puppet-Cat was on the desk, looking at the open book, reading—look at him, he is reading, he really thinks he is a human.

"I need to put this away, Puppet-Cat." She picked him up, and moved him to the bed, wooden limbs clicking against each other as they dangled.

"I will not be needing it for a while." Clockwise. Closing the book, Gysel returned it to its spot on the shelf and took the Sigillography book she had gotten from the bookstore two days ago. With a fresh notebook, she sat down and began studying. A knock came from Gysel's door.