Chapter 31: Visitors

A few days later, just after Iris had gone to her morning lectures, Clara knocked on Professor Morris’s door for their usual tests and spellcasting practice. When he opened it, he wasn’t wearing his typical checkered scarf look; instead, he had a dark coat buttoned to the neck, and his hands were empty.

“No staff today?” she asked.

“Where we’re headed, it would attract needless attention.” He raised his index finger, showing the emerald ring around it. “And this is more than enough for what we need to do.”

“Oh? Are we doing something different this time?”

His eyes turned serious. “We’re going to visit Forrest.”

Clara had been expecting this, eventually. After all, if Morris wanted to study her in order to learn how to heal him, surely there would be merit in comparing their conditions side-by-side.

He stepped out of his office, closed the door behind him, and locked it. “Forrest is being cared for at a chapel on the east side of Westwick. The Church maintains a small hospice there.”

Clara’s shoulders stiffened. She didn’t want to deal with the Church right now, but if this could help understand her condition more, there was no other choice. “Do you mean the one with the spire, near the river?”

“That’s the one. Saintess Winifred’s.”

“I know it. I wandered there before. Father Leofric’s parish?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you’re acquainted with him, given how recently he came to Westwick,” said Morris as the pair walked toward the campus gates. “There’s a stone annex attached to the back—it used to be the rectory, from what I understand. Nowadays, the Church uses it for cases they’d rather not house in a hospital.”

“Such as Memory Voids?”

He nodded. “Memory Voids are exceedingly rare and can be deeply unsettling to some of the more superstitious faithful. They call it a severance from the Goddess’s grace, a sign of a soul cut adrift. Some even refuse to be near a Void patient at all.”

Clara frowned. “The Church says magic comes from the Goddess, so a person severed from it must be some sort of unholy abomination… I suppose I can see a form of twisted logic in it.”

Morris glanced at her while they walked. “I wouldn’t put it quite so severely, but yes, that is the idea. Is that not why you asked for my discretion when it comes to your identity?”

Well, I wasn’t exactly concerned with the theological implications. But sure, let’s go with that.

They walked in silence the rest of the way, arriving at Saintess Winifred’s Chapel in about half an hour. Clara felt the same warmth as she had last time, except now the other half of her—the one that didn’t come from Stella—held trepidation more than curiosity.

As the professor had said, at the back of the chapel was a newer-looking wing built from pale stone, with narrow windows set in high walls. They walked in, and a young nun in a dark habit met them at the entrance.

“Welcome back, Professor Morris,” said the nun. She looked barely older than Emma, with wide brown eyes and thin fingers. “And this…?”

“My assistant,” said Morris without hesitation.

I suppose a professor’s assistant is a step up from a maid. I’ll take it.

The nun led them down a corridor that smelled of dried lavender with a tinge of alcohol—some form of antiseptic, or whatever passed for it in this world. There were four doors on each side, all closed with a heavy stillness.

“How many patients are there?”

“Seven, Miss. Most are elderly folk whose minds have faded with age. Young Forrest is the only one who…” The nun trailed off, then stopped in front of the last door to the right. “Oh, you should know that there’s another visi—”

The door opened from the inside, and Reginald Vainglory stepped out.

He froze when he saw them, and there was a rawness around his eyes that vanished almost instantly. Then he put on his usual airs, like one might change coats, lifted his chin, and squared his shoulders.

“Professor. Casewell.”

“Viscount,” said Morris carefully. “I didn’t know you visited. It’s admirable, but make sure not to neglect your classes.”

Reginald adjusted the cuff of his jacket, just like she knew Warren did when he was stalling. “I was passing by and thought it appropriate to check on the condition of a fellow club member. I am still his captain, as you know.”

“That’s very responsible of you,” said Clara.

“Yes, well.” He stepped to the side and glanced at the nun. “Sister Margeaux.”

The nun lowered her head. “Thank you for your visit, viscount. We shall wait for you again next week at the usual time.”

Clara smiled, and Reginald grunted as his cheeks reddened. He quickly raised his hand to his face and left the annex without saying anything else. Then she walked through the door with Morris and closed it behind them.

The room was small and clean, with a single bed beneath the window, a wooden chair pulled close to the bedside, and a side table bearing a glass of water and a vase of fresh lavender. Forrest Lorne sat propped against the headboard, his curly brown hair freshly combed. His green eyes were staring straight at the far wall.

But the eerie part wasn’t the emptiness; it was what remained. His chest rose and fell steadily, and his hand even twitched when the professor moved closer to him. It was as if he were standing on the precipice of awakening, but not quite able to take that last step.

“Hey, Forrest,” said Morris softly, “it’s Professor Morris again. I brought someone with me this time. I think you’d like her.”

Clara’s chest tightened at the lack of a response. Somewhere behind these motionless eyes was a boy who’d been bright and kind and talented, whose only crime was falling in love with the wrong person. Even Reginald Vainglory, on his knees and crying in open court, hadn’t had to go through this.

Morris sat down on the opposite end of the bed and motioned for Clara to take the chair. He took a deep breath, then raised his arm. “Aperiantur oculi mentis,” he murmured, and his eyes glowed with that intense yellow light. They jumped from Clara to Forrest and back, as if comparing their every detail.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“As I thought, there’s a similar absence of energy. And yet…” Morris came closer, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Miss Casewell, could you stand closer to him?”

Clara leaned next to Forrest on the bed as if they were posing for a picture. It felt a bit wrong to get so close to him without his permission, but she was doing it for both their sakes.

“Superficially, your condition seems identical to his. But on closer inspection, I can see subtle differences. If I think of both of you as a collection of pipes designed to carry water, it’s as if yours have dried up, whereas his are closer to clogged. Which raises the question: what are the implications of that?” The professor took out a pencil and notebook from his pocket and began scribbling as Clara returned to her seat.

While he focused on his work, she adjusted the blanket over Forrest’s lap and smoothed a crease on his shirt. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered, both to him and to herself.

Eventually, the door opened behind them.

“Professor Morris, Miss Casewell. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Clara looked back. Father Leofric stood in the doorway, his bright robes seeming almost ghostly against the white room. He had the same mild warmth as the last time they’d spoken, and in his hands was a wicker basket covered with a cloth.

“Father Leofric,” said Morris, whose eyes had returned to normal. “I didn’t realize you attended to the hospice.”

“It is my parish, professor. The annex falls under my care, just as the chapel does.” Leofric came closer to Forrest, and Clara gave him space. He put down the basket on the side table and took out a glass of what looked like a thick brown juice. Into it he mixed some crushed breadcrumbs and a pinch of herbs.

Clara raised an eyebrow.

“The boy still needs nutrition,” said Leofric. “He can’t move his mouth enough to eat, but he can swallow liquids if served carefully.”

“And the herbs?” she asked.

“Willow bark, to relieve pain.” Leofric gave a resigned smile. “I don’t know if the boy is suffering, but if he is, he wouldn’t be able to tell us. The Goddess charges all of us with protecting those who need it.”

“That’s very kind of you, Father,” said Clara.

He raised the cup to Forrest’s lips and tilted it gently, using his other hand to pull the boy’s head back. After Forrest’s mouth was full of juice, Leofric closed it carefully, and there was a slow gulp, then another. The priest repeated this process a few times until the cup was empty.

“With that out of the way, can I get something for either of you? Some iced water, perhaps?”

The professor shook his head. “We should be going soon; I have a class to teach this afternoon. And I wouldn’t want to miss the posting of the midterm results. I believe that will be later today.”

Leofric gave a small nod. “Of course. In any case, thank you for visiting—it is heartening to see so many rally around a soul in need.” Then he turned to Clara. “Miss Casewell, the Goddess seems to keep drawing you back to Saintess Winifred’s. I’d hoped it might be for services, but I’ve learned to take the blessings I’m given.”

There was that familiar guilt again, but she pushed it away. “Unfortunately, my work leaves me with little time to attend the regular prayers.”

“Ah. Is that what you both are here for, then? Work? I thought I sensed some magic.”

Before she could answer, Morris spoke up. “We are merely observing and theorizing. I didn’t cast any spells on him—I wouldn’t dream of using memory magic against my sentencing terms.”

“Of course not. The Church has every confidence in your integrity, Professor, despite the recent unpleasantness.” Leofric looked down at Forrest, then made a slow gesture over him. A blessing, Clara assumed. “Such a tragedy. Memory is a sacred gift; the Goddess grants it to us so that we may learn from our past and grow closer to the light. To have your back turned on it… There are few fates more pitiable.”

Was there emphasis on those words, or was she imagining it? After what happened with Marcella, and then the note, Clara wasn’t really sure what degree of suspicion was reasonable and what bordered on paranoia.

“Then we can agree that restoring it would be a virtuous goal,” she said cautiously.

“Certainly. Though from what I understand, that would be quite a difficult undertaking, something not even Her Holiness has done before. But I’m sure Professor Morris’s mind is far more learned than my own when it comes to matters of magic. Professor, Miss Casewell—I’ll leave you to your work.”

Leofric inclined his head, then left the room, his soft footsteps receding down the corridor. After they had faded completely, Morris let out a breath.

“I confess I’m rather hesitant about dealing with the Church after everything that happened. Do you know that man well?” he asked.

“I’ve only met him once, at the chapel. Or twice, if you count when I saw him from afar at the field at Claves,” said Clara.

“Ah, yes. I recall he was assisting with the exams for the martial track students. He seems like quite the accomplished spellcaster.” Morris closed his notebook and tucked it into his coat.

“Why do you say so?”

“Well, his illusions seemed to have worked well for the martial exams.” Morris pushed his glasses up. “And today, he was able to tell magic had been cast even though I ended my vision spell immediately when I heard the door opening. That shows his senses are more refined than most people’s.”

“Is it unusual for a priest to be skilled in magic?”

“Not exactly. Unlike inquisitors, ordinary clergy such as priests or bishops aren’t required to be proficient, but many still are.”

“Is that so.” Clara filed the information away like an email she might want to consult later.