Chương 2: Chapter 1 ~ Clocks and Carriages

04/10/1111 EotTS, 07: 00 The alarm clock is ringing... ringing, ringing, ringing, and it needs to be turned off—Gysel awoke with a violent start, jolting upright in bed, and launching Kawvel in a long arc across the bed-chamber and to the foot of the old, oaken door.

Frantically, she pawed at her bedside table: finding her glasses; a thick book that needed to be remembered, as it was picked specifically for travel-reading; a coin purse with ten full kings and some change that would serve as spending money at the Academy; and finally, the rooster's misbegotten brass brother, which, after a hearty cleave, fell silent. Gysel shifted to the edge of her bed, feet dangling above the small carpet beneath.

She languidly reached for the alarm clock; the time needed to be checked, and then the clock needed to be packed: the clay-face behind the quartz was blurry, with the numbers smearing into unrecognizable blobs of green, but was the seventh hour, for that is what the alarm was set to last night, and in the ten long years that the dutiful, gear-driven signaler had held its post, it was yet to fail.

To-day, the alarm clock was to be restationed, and given a new nightstand to call home, or perhaps a desk, but hopefully not the floor—for to-day, the coach from the Thoranyn Academy of Alchemy and Magick will be arriving, bringing freedom with it.

The hardwood floor just beyond the carpet was cold, chilled by the air of early autumn that had crept in through the open window and past the rustling curtains like a specter: luckily, this was a haunting of the sort that did not call for an exorcism, but just a pair of slippers.

There were barely enough things worth bringing from the bedroom to fill two medium-sized trunks and one large one (which was surprising; one would think that after nearly nineteen years of living in the same house, one would acquire more than three trunks' worth of important stuffs). The trunks had been packed the night before and placed largest first, followed by the two smaller trunks, or, in order of importance: clothes, books, and finally trinkets.

The alarm clock could not be worn, nor read in the same sense as how the word applies to books: thus, it was a trinket. Gysel dropped the alarm clock into the trinket trunk and shut the lid.

"I'm sorry, Kawvel," she said, picking the forever-loved, stuffed bear up: Kawvel was missing a black button eye; the leather had long since worn off his nose, leaving only the brown of fired clay on a surface that once had been black; his left arm was backwards, bearing the red thread of a botched surgery preformed by a young novice with the needle; but his embroidered smile was still there, frayed on the edges, but nonetheless still there.

"It's going to be awfully dark for a bit, but I'm excited to bring you with me... Yes, I am sorry, Mother and Father might try to hide you away." Gysel opened the first trunk, as Kawvel deserved the comfort of soft fabrics, familiar smells, and the assurance that his closest friend would sooner go nude, or worse, without a fresh pair of socks than forget about him. Lifting up his front paws, she tucked him under a dark-green wool shawl.

Gysel gave Kawvel's right paw a shake, but did not shut the lid, not yet, because the trunk was missing the nightgown, which was currently on shift. She had chosen her outfit for to-day the night prior: a pine-green blouse, a brown tweed vest, and brown corduroy pants. Removing the nightgown and draping it over the back of a chair, she dressed.

Once changed, she hurriedly folded the nightgown and laid it atop Kawvel as an extra blanket, then she shut the lid (gently, he would not want to be woken), then locked the trunk. Dropping the key into her pocket, she headed for the door, but paused in front of the mirror and the brown blanket covering it; the blanket rippled and swayed with the specters of the past that had snuck in through the window many, many years ago.

It was a standing mirror, with a wooden frame with wooden legs, and a hinge that allowed the mirror to swing up and down, and up and down—but what wood is the frame made from, or was it painted? it is painted... no, it is not, but what about the hinges, what metal are they? how long has it been covered for? a while, but that is not definite, what is the definite time? a while of years, but can 'a while' be finite, determined? it can, if it ends now, but should it, just to see how the outfit looks? no!

it is not needed, removing the cloth would let the girl inside out, she is trapped, trapped within the glass and silver, a portrait of a doll, a portrait commissioned for Mother, by Mother, for Mother to find, Mother is making breakfast. Breakfast would be eaten first, and then the luggage was to be brought downstairs.

The coach was to arrive at the ninth hour—at least it should, hopefully it will—the letter had said to be ready at the ninth hour, and it was doubtful that the top alchemy school in the kingdom would be tardy. Opening the door, Gysel stepped out into the fourth-floor hallway; the smell of eggs and beef patties wafted up from the kitchen three floors below.

She hurried down the stairs, and to the kitchen; it was the best meal made by a maladroit chef, in the worst environment with the joys of the birdfeeders just outside the window, and there was more anxiety surrounding the impending discussion, then there was surrounding the travel to Thoranyn—it will surely be one final effort by Mother and Father to prevent their darling daughter from leaving, one final attempt to convince the proper heir to abdicate the throne to live a sad life as anything but a queen upon a red and gold throne.

Sitting down, Gysel placed the arch of her feet on the wooden rod between the chair's front legs, running them back and forth upon a bar that used to turn (it was fun to fidget with, until it was 'fixed,' leaving it as just a wooden bar between two chair legs with no purpose and no unique qualities). To-day Father had the courtesy to wait for his daughter to be seated before starting on his babbling: "I was talking with Maerahl the other day.

He said he would talk to his daughter about getting you a job as an apprentice at her fashion house."

"I do not want a job at a fashion house," Gysel said, taking a deep breath; this one-sided discussion, and its many variations, grew stale and trite years ago, but it managed to continue (like a serialized story that lost its reader-base many years ago); there was a small hope that the letter from Professor Hleenska would put a stop to the conversations many mutated forms, but it only made Mother and Father bring up the topic once per day, during Breakfast, instead of thrice, woven throughout the day, between meals, and passes in the hallways.

"Sometimes you just have to do something you don't want to. You were taught how to sew at school. You will be fine."

"Yes, but I do not want to and do not need to. I was granted a scholarship to a school I did not apply to. I am going to go." Her father waved his hand dismissively.

"And that is what I told him. I told him that you didn't want to work as a highly paid seamstress because you wanted to pursue alchemy." Gysel fidgeted in the chair and looked out the window towards the silly little tits on the birdfeeder—why had Father said it like that?

'alchemy,' if he did not want a child interested in 'alchemy', he should not have nourished the interest, only to shun it when he realized that his gamble on a chemist cost him his pot. Father continued: "It was not my proudest moment. Telling him that my only daughter was going to school for alchemy." The plate before Gysel sat empty—upon it Father likely saw his daughters future, how does one even respond to that? what would be Father's proudest moment? tearing his daughter's dreams away?

will there be heavy snow over the winter, please Lady Faerthryne, do your worst!

"You know your odds of having a decent living from alchemy are slim, right?" Mother removed an egg from the cast-iron pan with a copper spatula, scraping it all the way, and set it upon an open bun.

"You don't want to spend the rest of your life as a teaching assistant, do you?" Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. That sounds enjoyable—access to the equipment, maybe a place to stay on campus, the pay would not matter, a life full of enjoyment from one's craft is far better than any shiny material reward—but there was no point in saying this, it has been said before, many, many, times, and it never mattered then, and it will not now.

"Just because your father knows the King, doesn't mean he can get you a job working as a Court-Alchemist." Her mother placed a plate in front of Gysel. Gysel stared at the breakfast sandwich for a moment: it was as it always was, egg, beef, and cheese on a fresh sourdough bun; the cheese on the bottom instead of the top, because no matter how many times it was said that the cheese should be on the top, the cheese was always on the bottom—what did Mother say? did it matter? what would she say...

maybe: 'Gysel, you are not going to ever find a man who loves you with hair like that; it is too uneven, you need to let it grow,' no, it does not matter, Mother would not get a response either way. Father changed the subject.

"So when is the coach going to arrive?"

"Nine," Gysel answered.

"I told you this last night, and it said so in the letter that arrived two maidens ago." She began to eat, the cheese falling to her chin and onto the plate, instead of dripping down the egg with the butter, like it should if the sandwich had been made properly.

"Where's the bear—are you bringing it?" She did not look up from the sandwich, only hiding her mouth behind her left arm.

"Yes, Kawvel is in the trunk with my clothes."

"Don't you think you're a bit old to bring Kawvel with you?" Gysel chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, but did not answer: that was a stupid question for Father to ask; Kawvel wanted to come, so Kawvel was coming.

"I agree with your father," Mother chimed in.

"Eighteen is far too old to bring a comfort stuffed animal with you. You should leave it here. I'm sure it will be happy to see when you visit." Gysel chewed faster, swallowed faster, and took another bite faster, but still did not answer—can the coach come at eight, or maybe now, crashing straight through the window, the path along the north-side of the house should be wide enough.

"She has a private dorm," Father said.

"I'm sure no one will even see Kawvel—unless she brings a boy to her dorm." Gysel gave Father a sidelong glance—the only way that will happen is if he arranges for it: 'this is your husband, I had to pay the family to get him to marry you, you can drop out of school now'. She looked at the last piece of her sandwich, but did not eat it; instead, she stood from the chair, tucked it in, and walked to the door, but paused just before the threshold, and turned back to Mother and Father.

"I will not leave Kawvel. I have had Kawvel with me my whole life. And I want to bring Kawvel."

"Kawvel doesn't have feelings, Gysel. It will not know that you are gone," said Mother—he might not, but at least he listens. Gysel walked to the stairs, where Myn was lying at the bottom. She was a black, shaggy dog of the breed that was black and shaggy.

"I have saved something for you." She held the piece of the sandwich up for Myn.

"Gentle." Gysel moved the piece within range of Myn's snout; Myn lunged for it and put Gysel's fingers in her mouth all the way up to the second knuckle.

"That was not gentle," Gysel took Myn by the sides of her head and looked into her brown eyes: that which lies behind those eyes is certainly not a brain, it is another stomach.

"That is why I certainly cannot leave Kawvel alone here... alone here with you. Can I?" Myn wagged her tail in response; Myn did not know the meaning of the words spoken, but she liked the attention—it is nice, is it not? the attention. Gysel let go of Myn and gave her a brief head pat before heading back to her room to bring the trunks downstairs alone, as Mother and Father could not be trusted to help with the task; they would try to remove Kawvel.

One by one, she lugged the trunks down the stairs and placed them at the front door, and once they were all there, Gysel sat at the foot of the stairs, silently with Myn; the former waiting for something new, the latter waiting for more food. 04/10/1111 EotTS, 08: 72 The clicking of shod-hooves and clacking of tires on the brick-laid street drifted through the open window of the front parlor. Gysel stood and ran into the parlor—how grand is the couch sent by the Academy?

will it be worthy of carrying such a brilliant young student? The coach was made of polished walnut with strips of bronze holding the panels together. A single door faced the house and bore the same coat of arms as the wax seal on the letters. It had physical glass windows, which had a gentle spattering of mud, just enough to know it had rained the night prior. Two large brown horses, with braided black manes and tails, pulled the coach—it is certainly worth, quite the coach indeed!

The coachman stepped down from the driver's box and opened the coach's door, and a tall, slim female attendant stepped out. Her blonde hair was tied into a tight bun, and she wore a black overcoat. The two spoke briefly; with a nod, the coachman went to the back of the coach and opened the boot. The attendant opened the gate to the front yard and approached the door. Gysel hurried to Father's study; the door was shut—Mother and Father are likely both inside, discussing their daughter's future... plotting.

She opened the sliding maple door. They were talking, but not about their daughter; they were talking about what was for dinner, and neither seemed to notice the door being opened, so Gysel waited at the threshold to be addressed so she may speak. There was a knock at the front door, and Myn started barking. It was then that Gysel's parents noticed her.

"Are they here for you?" Father stood up from the desk and walked around to Gysel.

"Yes," answered Gysel.

"Hmm, well, as much as I think there are better things for you to be doing, remember to have fun, and be sure to write." He gave Gysel a short hug. Gysel nodded from within his embrace, then he released her. Mother gave her a brief hug and then pulled away.

"Remember, if this doesn't work out, we know people who can help you get an actual job." Gysel gave an awkward smile, a forced 'all right,' and left the room. She hurried to the door; there was no reason to keep the lady waiting, nor was there one to remain at home any longer. Myn was still barking, jumping, trying to look through the window that was far too high for her to ever peek through.

Father whistled for Myn; Gysel sniffed—the noise will not be missed—and Myn stopped barking and ran to the study, as a prompt response to the whistle meant treats. Gysel opened the door, looked up to the attendant, and smiled widely.

"Are you ready to leave?" asked the attendant. Gysel nodded.

"Are those yours?" The attendant pointed to the luggage. Gysel nodded.

"May I come in for a moment and help you bring them to the coach?" Gysel nodded. Together, the attendant and Gysel moved the luggage to the boot of the coach. The boot shut with a bang, then the two entered the carriage, the coachman gently shutting the door behind them. The carriage was spacious, with more than enough leg-room between the two, soft brown, upholstered leather benches. A brass hole-cover sat in the center, likely something that could be removed, and fitted with a single legged table.

Hung from the ceiling was a small, bronze sigil lantern, emitting just enough light to read by, but not enough to prevent one from taking a nap.

"How long will the ride be?" Gysel asked the attendant.

"About half a maiden, give or take a day depending on the weather." She responded. Gysel looked down and began tapping away on her fingertips: half a Maiden is fourteen days, that is three hundred and sixty-four hours—poor Kawvel, at least there are stops along the way, it would be awful for him to spend the whole trip locked in a trunk, not a great way to travel. The coachman's head appeared in the driver's window.

"Are we ready to go?"

"Do you have everything?" asked the attendant.

"Yes," answered Gysel—no.

"No!" The attendant smiled.

"Must be important then; we can wait. Go get it." Gysel opened the carriage door, and ran out back into the house, upstairs and to her room; the book had nearly, nearly, been forgotten: the book was necessary for the coach-ride to the Academy, as it had a large page count (one-thousand one-hundred seventy-three to be precise), which would allow for it to be read throughout the whole journey, likely twice, but most importantly, it would serve to prevent any attempts at conversation started by the attendant.

Snatching the book from the bedside-table, Gysel hurried out of her room, back downstairs, out of the house, and back into the carriage, shutting the door behind her.

"Are you ready now?" The Attendant asked.

"Yes," Gysel answered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." The attendant turned to the open window behind her.

"Let us be off."

"Aye" The coachman's whip cracked, and the coach lurched forward. Mother and Father appeared in the parlor window. The attendant opened her mouth to comment, but stopped herself and only pursed her lips and knit her brow. Gysel waved to her parents from the window of the coach; they waved back from the parlor window for a moment, but stopped and left before Gysel had lost sight of the house.

She opened the book, and her bookmark fell to her lap; good, this was not forgotten, but what was—something certainly is being forgotten. The attendant looked at the book, "Is that the one about the young heir and the kitchen boy, that is really about the history of an aging castle, and the mysteries inside?"

"It is," answered Gysel.

"What do you like about it?"

"The description of the castle."

"Then you will love the Academy."