centigrade

Samantha

Having expressed interest in the spell primitives, Vincent took Samantha to a small museum.

“I remembered you asking about how the universe groups certain actions together as spells. This is one way it can be done.” He gestured to a display. Centigrade, the magical compiler. “It’s believed to come from Holstram himself. Magister Gordian determined a grammar that could be carved into tablets and given to golems, which is able to do many kinds of magic. Though, to be clear, I’m not a magic specialist. I’m a mathematician.”

She stared. She stared. She fell to her knees.

The room was so big, even though it wasn’t. It should’ve been. It was claustrophobic. The world was so small. She was suffocating. It was like a reverse stipospace backpack, a bag smaller on the inside than the outside, where the exhibit was stealing the very fabric of space from her lungs. She breathed in, out, in, out.

“Princess? Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine, yes,” she panted.

The building was tiny. Wooden roof only a foot higher than she was. Small display cases of books, ink, fragments of stone. And this. This, shoved off to the side.

“Well, if you want to learn more, you should read Gordian’s old notes. No one’s really worked on it since him, and that would’ve been before I was born. Well, besides the prince, I think.”

She attempted to stand to her feet, but gave up very quickly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. Yes.” Yes. “Vincent?”

“Yes?”

“I think we should get to know each other better. I propose we create 2 lists: 1, items we would absolutely wish to take with us should we go on a vacation, and 2, books which one found indispensable for their education. As many as you can think of for each. I shall do the same.”

“Perhaps after the tests?”

She breathed in. “Fine.”