Chapter 8: The Academy Has Too Many People Who Want to Be Close to Me

The courtyard had not gotten less crowded.

If anything, it had gotten worse. The morning sun was fully up now, and the last carriages and carts were unloading at the main gate, and three hundred students had become something closer to four hundred, and every single one of them was doing something loud. Trunks scraped across stone. Instructors shouted names from lists. A horse sneezed. A girl dropped a cage full of something that screeched and rolled under a cart.

I stood at the edge of it all with a cat girl holding my sleeve and a bag over my shoulder and the distinct feeling that I had already used up all of today’s courage on the king.

Rin’s ears were flat.

“Loud.”

“Yeah.”

“Too loud.”

“Yeah, Rin.”

“Can we leave?”

“We just arrived.”

“We can arrive again tomorrow.”

“That is not how arriving works.”

She pressed closer. Her tail curled around my ankle. I could feel her shaking, just slightly, the way a cat shakes when it has been picked up and put somewhere it did not agree to be put. She was not scared. She was overwhelmed. There is a difference. Scared people run. Overwhelmed people grip your sleeve hard enough to leave nail marks.

An instructor in a dark blue robe spotted us before I could think of a way to look invisible. She was tall. She had a clipboard. She had the expression of a woman who had done this exact job for fifteen years and had stopped finding it interesting around year three.

“Name.”

“Alfred Takafumi the Second.”

She looked at the clipboard. She looked at me. She looked at Rin. She looked at the clipboard again. She made a small mark with her pen.

“Royal summons.”

“…yes.”

“Room fourteen. East wing. Second floor. Your roommate has already arrived.”

“Roommate.”

“Yes.”

“I have a roommate.”

“All first-year students share rooms.”

“I have — she is — Rin is —”

“Summoned spirits are classified as personal effects.”

“She is not a personal effect.”

“She is classified as one.”

“She is a person.”

“She is classified as a personal effect, Master Takafumi. She may stay in your room. Your roommate has already been informed. East wing. Second floor. Room fourteen. Welcome to the Academy.”

She moved on. She did not look back. She was already calling the next name before I had finished processing the sentence. Summoned spirits are classified as personal effects.

“Rin.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“You are not a personal effect.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“You are a person.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“I just want that to be clear.”

“It is clear, Alfred.”

Her ears came up a little. She tugged my sleeve once, gently. I took that as a signal to move.

We moved.

The Academy courtyard was built in a great square, open to the sky, with covered walkways running along all four sides. The east wing was to our right. The stone arches of the walkway framed a long, dim corridor, and at the far end, a staircase climbed up to the second floor. Students were filing in and out with bags and trunks. The walls were old stone, smooth and warm, and the ceiling was low enough that the tallest boys had to duck at the corners. It smelled like wax and old wood and the faint iron tang of magic that seeped out of old walls in places where too many spells had been cast over too many years.

Room fourteen was at the end of the hall.

The door was already open.

I stopped.

There was a boy inside.

He was sitting on the left bed with one leg crossed over the other, reading a small leather-bound book with the calm attention of someone who had been waiting and did not mind waiting. His hair was dark. Not black. Dark brown, the color of autumn bark, cut short and neat. He was my height, maybe a little thinner. He wore a simple gray traveling tunic, clean and pressed. His boots were by the bed, side by side, toes perfectly aligned, pointing forward. His bag was unpacked. His things were already arranged on the shelf above his bed — books, a folded cloth, a small wooden box — in a row so neat it looked like someone had used a ruler.

He looked up when I stepped into the doorway.

He smiled.

It was a very warm smile. The kind of smile that made you feel like you had just walked into a room where someone had been keeping a seat for you. His eyes were dark and steady, and there was something in them that I could not name, something that said I have been expecting you without the words.

“Alfred-kun.”

I blinked.

“…do I know you?”

“Of course, you know me. We met at the guild festival three years ago. You bought me a meat skewer because I did not have money.”

I bought a lot of skewers of meat at the guild festival three years ago. My father gave me too many coins, and I panicked and fed half the children in attendance. I did not remember any of their faces. I barely remember the skewers.

“…right.”

“I am Sakuya.”

“Sakuya.”

“Yes.”

“Sakuya.”

“Yes, Alfred-kun.”

“That is — that name is very —”

“Hm?”

“…never mind. Nice to meet you. Again.”

He stood. He moved with a smooth, easy grace that reminded me of someone, though I could not place who. He crossed the small room in three steps and held out his hand. I took it. His grip was firm and warm and lasted exactly one second longer than a normal handshake. He did not let go first. I let go first.

He looked past my shoulder.

His smile did not change.

“And who is this?”

Rin had not come into the room. She was standing in the doorway with her fingers curled around the frame, her ears flat, and her tail very still. She was looking at Sakuya with the expression of a cat that has just discovered another cat sitting in its spot by the fire.

“This is Rin.”

“Rin-chan.”

“…”

“Hello, Rin-chan.”

Rin did not say hello. Rin’s ears went flatter. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe. I heard the wood creak.

Sakuya tilted his head. The smile stayed warm. He crouched down a little, the way a person crouches to greet a small animal, and held out one hand, palm up, slow and gentle.

“I am Alfred-kun’s roommate. We will be living together.”

The wood creaked louder.

“Rin. Rin, let go of the doorframe.”

She did not let go of the doorframe.

“Rin, you are going to break the doorframe.”

“…”

“Rin.”

She let go. She stepped into the room. She walked directly to the right bed, sat on it, and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. She did not look at Sakuya. She looked at me. Her look said, very clearly, I do not approve of this arrangement.

Sakuya straightened. He was still smiling. He had not stopped smiling. I was beginning to notice that about him.

“She is shy.”

“She is cautious.”

“She is very cute.”

“She is — please do not call her cute.”

“Why not. She is cute.”

Rin’s ears flicked once. Up, then back down. She pulled the cloak tighter.

Sakuya turned back to me. He gestured at the room with both hands, a small proud sweep, as if he were showing me something he had built himself.

“I took the left side. I hope that is acceptable.”

“That is fine.”

“I arranged my things already. I did not touch the right side.”

“That is fine.”

“I also swept the floor.”

“…you swept the floor.”

“It was dusty.”

“You swept the floor of our dormitory room before I arrived.”

“I wanted it to be nice for you, Alfred-kun.”

“…thank you.”

“Of course.”

He said, of course, the way my mother said, of course. With warmth. With certainty. With the absolute unshakeable conviction that what he had done was natural and good and that any reasonable person would have done the same. He had swept the floor. He had aligned his boots. He had unpacked and organized his shelf and then sat on his bed and waited, with a book, for me to arrive.

I did not know what to do with that.

“Alfred-kun.”

“Yes.”

“Are you hungry?”

“…what?”

“It is almost midday. You have been traveling since dawn. I asked the hall attendant about the dining schedule. Lunch is at the twelfth bell. I can show you the way.”

“You know the way already.”

“I arrived early. I walked the grounds.”

“You walked the entire grounds.”

“Only the important parts. The dining hall. The training yard. The baths. The library. The infirmary.”

“The infirmary.”

“In case you are injured, Alfred-kun.”

“…”

“It is on the west side, past the herb garden. The head physician is a woman named Instructor Lena. She is strict but fair. She does not like students who skip meals.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked her.”

“You asked the head physician about her opinions on meals.”

“I asked her about many things, Alfred-kun. I wanted to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

He looked at me. The warm smile deepened by the smallest amount. His dark eyes held mine with a steady, patient certainty.

“For you.”

I opened my mouth. I closed it. I opened it again.

On the right bed, Rin made a noise. It was a small noise, coming from somewhere deep in her chest. It was the noise a cat makes when it sees a bird through a window and has not yet decided whether to be angry or hungry.

Sakuya glanced at her. She glared at him. He smiled at her. She pulled the cloak over her head.

“Rin-chan is tired.”

“Rin is processing.”

“Perhaps she would like to rest while I show you the dining hall.”

“I will stay with Rin.”

“I can bring food back.”

“I will get food myself.”

“I know where the hall is.”

“I will find it.”

“Alfred-kun.”

“Sakuya.”

We looked at each other. He was still smiling. I was not smiling. Somewhere under a green cloak, Rin was vibrating at a frequency I could almost hear.

“…we will all go together.”

“Wonderful.”

He clapped once. He turned and picked up a small cloth bag from his shelf. He opened it and, with the delicate care of a jeweler, produced three small rice cakes wrapped in white paper. He held one out to me. He held one out toward the lump of green cloak on the right bed.

“For the walk.”

“…where did you get rice cakes?”

“I made them.”

“You made rice cakes.”

“This morning.”

“In the dormitory.”

“The kitchen staff was very accommodating.”

“The kitchen staff let you into the kitchen on your first day.”

“I asked politely, Alfred-kun.”

I took the rice cake. It was perfect. It was a small, white, perfectly shaped rice cake, made by a boy I had apparently bought a meat skewer for three years ago. He had arrived before me, swept my floor, memorized the grounds, befriended the kitchen staff, located the infirmary, and prepared snacks.

I ate the rice cake.

It was delicious.

On the bed, a small hand emerged from the cloak. It took the rice cake. It disappeared back under the cloak. A quiet crunching sound followed.

“Rin-chan likes it.”

The crunching grew louder. It was an angry crunching. It was the crunching of a person who resented delicious food for being delicious when the wrong hands had made it.

I sat down on the edge of my bed.

Between us, the room was small and warm, smelling of old stone and new rice cakes. The window was open, and courtyard sounds drifted in. The bell for the twelfth hour had not yet rung. The afternoon stretched ahead of us like a road I could not yet see the end of.

To my left, a boy who knew my name sat smiling, his boots perfectly aligned.

On my right, a girl who knew my hand sat hiding under a cloak with rice-cake crumbs on her fingers.

And somewhere very far to the north, in a tower on a hill, someone was smiling.

I could feel it.

I could not explain how.

But I could feel it.