In Scientia, page 24
“I’m not even 20. I’ll meet another—”
“And what if you can’t forget what it felt like to know her? You can dissolve the memories, but erasing the feeling that something is missing—”
“Then I’ll learn to resent her, because I will either way. Do you really think I could be happy knowing I put you back in danger? After everything my father put you both through. And for what?”
“For love, Hafeedee. You know that. For love. He loved your mother, and I supported him then, like I will support you now,” he said, emotion filling his eyes.
“No. I would never make such a selfish choice,” I declared, rising to my feet. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, and I don’t want to be down here. If the Sancti knew you kept—”
He stood too, gesturing for silence with an outstretched hand. Reaching behind him, he retrieved a book from the shelf and extended it toward me, “Take your book. You might be needing it.”
“Stop it,” I said through gritted teeth.
“There is no shame in using what we know. Those fanatics made you believe it was wrong, but it’s who we are.”
“No, those are my thoughts. It’s an infection that destroys the natural order—”
“Order that was created by people,” he pushed. “You’re not interfering with the natural world any more than humans do when they breathe.”
“Then why does everyone who uses it end up dead?!” I spat out, not realizing I felt that way until I heard myself say it.
“That has been your only experience,” he said with pity in his eyes. “That is not always the case. Our people lived peacefully for hundreds of years.”
He drained the remnants of his drink, before giving me a gentle look. “Tell me Massimo, what happens when water in a puddle dries?”
“It evaporates,” I said, extending him one last bit of rope before I left.
“Si, evaporatus. The process of liquid becoming gas. But the water vanishes, does it not? Yet it’s not called magic. Why?”
“Because it’s been proven, by science.” I was losing my patience.
“Magic is just a label for things that people can't explain. Or don't want to explain because its existence threatens their beliefs,” he said.
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off before I could. “We each get one life,” he said, pausing. “One chance to do something great. Your nonna and I have done that, many times over. Now it is your turn. We’ll stand by whatever choice you make.”
He held the book out once more. Its leather was unblemished, in perfect condition.
“I doubt Nonna would appreciate you speaking for her,” I said.
At that, he chuckled. “There’s not a single choice I make where I don’t think of your nonna. We operate as a team. She supports this,” he insisted.
“How? How could she?” I inquired sincerely, knowing her feelings toward the Sancti and In Unio.
“I’m only tough because I love you,” said Nonna, from the doorway. I turned around to see her in her nightgown. “He doesn’t speak for me, but yes, from time to time I allow him to do the heavy lifting. Especially at four in the morning.”
“You heard everything?” I asked.
She pointed between herself and my grandfather. “One soul, two bodies,” she said. “Or just too many years being together.”
Approaching me, her expression softened, perhaps at the thought of her greatest love.
“Listen to me. Only you, in your heart, know what is right for you. Anyone else’s opinion is tainted by their perspective,” she said. “You can’t, and shouldn’t, trust it.”
“There is no choice to make, Nonna,” I argued. “Not where your lives are concerned, and that is the end of it.” I could feel anger swirling within me, the conversation the furthest from the one I wanted to be having. Then or ever.
Undeterred, my nonna continued. “You’re almost a man now, an adult. So I won’t patronize you by claiming I know better. Instead, I’ll trust what you say. But if you change your mind, my only request is that you allow me to meet her. I can’t imagine any person who would ever be good enough for you and your brilliant mind, but if you believe it, I’m sure I’ll see it.” She moved close enough to rest her hand on the side of my face as she repeated my grandfather’s sentiments: “After all, there are worse things than death.”
She kissed me on the cheek, as my grandfather comforted her, wiping a tear from his own eye.
I left Italy the following day, deluding myself into feeling better. Knowing more information about her filled me with a false sense of confidence that I was better prepared for the level of threat I was bound to face. As if understanding the gravity, not just for me but for my grandparents, could help stave off the gnawing feeling tugging at my chest. The one that told me I was already tail-spinning out of control.
All my worst fears were bubbling to the surface, but one undeniable truth stood out. The best thing I could do for everyone I loved, including her, was to disappear.
Twenty-Three
Happier Than Ever
“Ma’am. Ma’am,” yelled a voice in my head.
I was hanging out with Max again (in my dreams), when it felt as though an earthquake had struck.
“Ma’am. The plane is landing, Ma’am?”
“No!” I screamed in the flight attendant’s face as I woke up. She was bent over me, shaking my shoulders. “Sorry,” I mumbled, groggy and out of it.
She held a button down that raised the bed into a seat, before stomping back to take her own. With one eye open, my body involuntarily slid upright, alerting me to the other first-class passengers who were staring at me like an intruder who’d just broken into their living room.
“First time on a plane,” I shrugged, with a sarcastic half smile.
I was drained. Physically, emotionally… idealistically. Every bone and muscle in my body wanted to give up. But as the wheels gripped the asphalt runway of JFK, I forced both eyes open and grabbed my phone to take it off airplane mode.
Peering out at a shade of grey different from what I remembered leaving just four days ago, my mind was overrun with all the change that had happened. Yet none of it felt real. I was detached, as if my body had shoved everything I’d witnessed into invisible compartments until I had the capacity to process them.
As notifications started lighting up on my phone, I clutched the red rock that hung around my neck, realizing it was the only thing still holding me together.
I quickly swiped past a text from my carrier welcoming me home, and one from Delilah:
Can’t wait to see you. Text when you land!
Before finding a message from Dylan:
Wanna grab dinner tomorrow night before Delilah’s play thing? Just as friends, no funny business… even if you try!!
If I had the energy, I would have laughed, or at least smiled.
There was nothing from my grandma, but I interpreted it as her respecting my space, honoring my promise to call her. I didn’t even have a full second to process the thought before I saw the subject line of an email that immediately put me on high alert: Plagiarism. It was from Mr. McKenzie:
Dear Ms. Nelson,
I regret to inform you that your recent assignment, titled “The Woman Who Helps Them Die,” was flagged by the school’s moderating company as being almost 100% plagiarized.
In accordance with Anderson’s Plagiarism Policy, we can only award marks for the original content of any assignment.
Since the vast majority of your work has been identified as plagiarized, you will receive 0% of the total possible mark. This reflects the percentage of the assignment that was identified as your original work…
I wanted to hurl my phone. The article must have been online somewhere, and the plagiarism software thought I’d stolen it. The problem was that to clear my name, I’d have to admit to submitting an article I’d previously written.
It wasn’t enough that I’d just discovered everything in the world was a complete lie; I was also at risk of failing the only thing I cared about that could give me an actual foundation in life. It seemed both trivial in the grand scheme of things and yet monumental. Sure, I could technically freeze the entire school (or at least all its water, I was fairly certain-ish), but failing Advanced Journalism for plagiarism would be the reddest of flags for any journalism program, especially NYU.
I panicked the entire way off the plane and onto the concourse, with what little energy I had left. Not even the sight of a man in a black suit holding a sign reading: Ms. Nelson-Sinclair-Dubois could snap me out of it. I told him to mark me as collected so he’d get paid, but that I had another ride. That wasn’t my name, after all, so I opted for the train and subway instead.
It wasn’t until I saw the skyline while going over the Williamsburg Bridge that I felt like there was a chance I’d be able to figure it all out. New York was still the only place in the world I wanted to be… my eternal escape. Just like it had been my mother’s, apparently. Perhaps it was a misguided sense of assurance, but there was something about the vibrancy of the city that made me feel like anything was possible. I wondered if that’s how she’d felt, too.
Delilah wasn’t in the room when I got back to Anderson. It was close to two in the afternoon, and I decided the best thing I could do was to clear my head with a nap before responding to Mr. McKenzie’s email.
On brand, I woke up at four the next morning, dehydrated and disoriented. I’d been so tired that I didn’t even dream, instead floating around in a state of nothingness. Instinctively, I reached for my phone, squinting against the harsh brightness of the screen.
McKenzie’s email was still open, and instead of swiping it closed like I wanted to, I rationalized that it was better to rip the Band-Aid off. I copied in Sheila Marshall, in case I needed a witness—at least I’d learned something from my encounter with the Sinclairs’ lawyer.
Dear Mr. McKenzie,
Thank you for your email.
I’m understandably alarmed and upset to be accused of stealing someone else’s work and passing it off as my own. I would appreciate a meeting at your earliest convenience so that we may clear this up before it incorrectly enters my record.
Miss. Marshall if you’re able to join, I’d appreciate it?
Thank you,
Eva.
I knew I was being unnecessarily antagonistic, but rage was overriding reason.
Lying back, staring at the popcorn ceiling above me, I thought of what Alexander’s grandson, Ivan, had said about the family’s connections. That I could have an internship at any paper I wanted, or a place at any college. Instead of inspiring me, it made me recoil. How would I ever dig myself out of my crumbling insecurity, if I knew I was there unfairly? Worse, how could I live knowing I’d stolen something that rightfully belonged to someone else? I wasn’t looking for a golden ticket, I simply wanted access to the same opportunities as everyone else.
McKenzie replied a few minutes before our 10 A.M. class, confirming we could meet afterward, and Miss. Marshall agreed. All I had to do was endure another egotistical monologue for an hour and fifty-five minutes before I could present my case.
Miss. Marshall showed up just after the bell rang, as kids were still filing out of the room. I was waiting at the back until she got there.
“Eva, hi,” she said, waving. “Patrick, how are you?”
“Good, good,” McKenzie responded with a brisk nod, then turned to me, his grin not quite reaching his eyes. “Eva, come on down.”
I took two steps forward and wanted to run ten steps back, grabbing my necklace for moral support.
“Well, you asked to meet with us,” he said, as I was halfway there. His words feeling like a spotlight.
“I didn’t plagiarize anything,” I said, trying to find my big girl voice. “The assignment I submitted was my own. I wrote every word. If any configuration of those words matched the works of other people who have already been published, then it was strictly done by accident.” I knew I was speaking like a character from a legal drama, but I didn’t know how else to get my point across.
“The website provides a report, Eva,” Miss. Marshall pointed out. “It showed it was 100% plagiarized.”
“From what source?” I inquired.
She hesitated. “Pardon?”
“From which author did I steal the work?”
She exchanged a glance with Mr. McKenzie, who reluctantly sat down at his laptop and started typing. With a smug look on his face, he clicked the mouse, the printer spitting ink.
He distributed the pages to the three of us, as I scanned through them, landing on the last.
“98% of the article was taken from a newsletter titled, ‘The Dunnington Doula of Death,’” I said, wishing I hadn’t gone so hard on the alteration.
“So?” retorted McKenzie. “You challenged your standing here for two percent of a grade?” Miss. Marshall’s face dropped as she looked farther down the page.
“I wrote that piece,” I said. “Look at the original author. Eva Nelson. It was published in my old school’s newsletter.”
He scanned the page, calculating his approach as he spoke.
“This doesn’t change anything. You didn’t write the article for this class,” he declared, his condescending tone heightened. “The assignment was to—”
“The assignment was a human-interest piece, which I submitted. All that report proves is that I’m lazy, not that I’ve stolen anything. How could I possibly steal from myself?” It was my only angle, and I had to argue it.
“And you’re proud of that kind of behavior?” he questioned, as though it were the most deplorable thing he could imagine. “Learning hinges upon honesty, Eva. What integrity is there—”
“Integrity?” I scoffed. “I’m seriously supposed to stand here and be lectured about integrity from a teacher who’d rather tell a student to give up than help them?”
“Eva, rules are rules. The assignment had a deadline and I wasn’t prepared to extend it. Do you think the print deadline of The Washington Post gets delayed when a journalist is overwhelmed with their workload?”
I felt bad. If only for a split second.
“But I’m not a journalist yet, am I? And this isn’t The Washington Post. I’m a high school student, at a new school, who wants to learn. Do I think that article reflects my aptitude? Absolutely not. I know I’ve made mistakes, but I did meet the deadline—”
“With stolen work—” he tried to interject.
“With lazy work,” I corrected him. “I would never steal someone else’s—”
“It’s beside the point, I’m afraid,” said McKenzie, packing up his things dismissively. “Unfortunately, the assignment has already been flagged in the system, so technically there’s nothing that either of us are able to do. Should you wish to appeal the decision, you can argue your case in front of the plagiarism committee but be warned, if you’re unsuccessful, you will receive an F for the class.”
I wanted to tell him that he could shove his grade and his class. That I’d happily argue in front of any committee that believed submitting used work was the same as stealing someone else’s, but I didn’t know if I had the conviction.
I looked to Miss. Marshall; her encouraging eyes offering support, if not sympathy. Something about it softened me. Reminding me that while everything I was defending was the truth, I’d also gotten myself into the situation because I hadn’t done the work. I was the one who’d allowed myself to get distracted by a boy. Sure, it felt like destiny was bringing us together, but I was the one who actively pursued it. That was on me and I knew the bigger I made the situation the uglier it was going to get—and I wasn’t sure I had the heart, or the belief, in what I felt was right.
“I need some time to think about it,” I said, heading out the door before they could say anything else.
I tried desperately to be present for my next class, to make up for the guilt I was feeling for not giving Anderson the attention it deserved, but every time I did, I was brought back to the bitter aftertaste from my encounter with McKenzie. Instead, I let my mind wander to thoughts of magic and crystals, and a world that made even less sense.
It felt so fantastical that by the time class was over, I’d almost convinced myself I’d made the whole thing up—easier to accept I was crazy than powerful. The doubt lingering until I got back to my room and confirmed the existence of In Scientia.
Spending the rest of the afternoon glued to it, I learned about the history of the original thirteen families and the three branches of magic they mastered: Elementum, Mentis and Spiritualis.
I discovered I was part of Elementum, the study of magic derived from the Earth and the elements present within its atmosphere. It encompassed nature, water, weather and, in the Sinclair-Dubois family’s case, metals and gemstones. It was represented by the triangle in the Symbol of In Unio.
Mentis, represented by the square, referred to matters of the mind. It included illusion, implanting thoughts, mind reading, mind control and the ability to manipulate space and time. Spiritualis, on the other hand, pertained to only two things: connection to spirit represented by the cross, and divination—the practice of reading energy to predict the future, represented by the circle.
It wasn’t until I came across various formulas, most of which seemed too fantastical to comprehend, that an idea started to form.
Reflectere Campus, or Reflective Field, was a formulation to reflect light around the caster, allowing them to move unseen. It was a simple preparation that involved ‘anointing’ a piece of quartz crystal with oil from sun-dried roses, then rubbing it to create friction. The movement was meant to generate heat, releasing a gas that established a reflective aura.
Delilah had some crystals on her bedside table, one of which was a citrine quartz, according to an internet search, and I had face oil that was made of roses. I lathered some on the crystal and tried reciting the words in the book.
