A Secret-Filled Argument between Qasim Ahmad and Paris Williams

I can’t stand my friends sometimes. Paris is sitting across from me, staring me down as Magister Holt is wrapping up our Principles of Mystic Theory: Metamystic seminar. “For Tuesday, remember to read the next chapter, and there are four articles on the site to read this weekend. And next Thursday, the sources for your final are due, so for those of you that are behind.” He looks intently at a couple of the other apprentices around the circle, “You don’t have time to goof off this week.”

One of those two apprentices, Vanya, nods, knowing that the words were mostly directed at him. Then, the clock hits the hour and Magister Holt smiles. “I’m heading over to my office for my office hours if you need help. But be forewarned, My MT102 class has a test tomorrow, so I expect lots of the freshmen to be stopping by.” And he leaves.

The rest of the class starts to file out, leaving Paris and myself alone with Keisha, who has been a good friend of mine for a couple years now. She looks at us, me, to her, then back. “You guys seem tense,” she says, “You need any help with finding your sources?”

“Not about that,” I reply with a smile.

Paris, smiling as well, glares at me. “Yes, I’m sure Qasim is getting plenty of help in that department already,” she says, trying to sound friendly and menacing at the same time. Unfortunately for me, she’s gotten pretty good at nailing that tone quite well over the many years of friendship with Mickey.

Keisha smiles and nods, understanding that whatever is going on isn’t any of her business. “Well then, Paris, see you Tuesday,” she begins, then turning to me, adds, “Qasim, we’re still on for Saturday?”

“Of course,” I say with a shrug, “I’d never miss a session, unless something immediate or terrible comes up.”

We stand up as Keisha leaves, and Paris looks at me. Once the door closes behind Keisha, Paris begins to talk to me without nearly as much friendliness. “Now, why can’t you flirt with her,” she mutters, “That would make everything better.”

“A, no, it wouldn’t. B, I can flirt with whoever I like, thank you. And C, I‘m not flirting, we’re just texting,” I insist.

“So, you won’t mind if I look at the texts?” she asks, knowing the answer.

I shake my head, replying with a simple, “Shut up.”

“You do realize how terrible this is for your future,” she presses.

That, from her, I just can’t take. I spit back, “No, you can’t talk to me about the future. Not you.”

Paris furrows her brow. “What do you mean by that?” she says. We head out of the classroom before the next class shows up, and head down the stairs to the lounge area.

As we walk down the stairwell, I answer the question with a question, though mine much more pointed. “Have you gotten back to Brittany yet?”

“I’m weighing my options,” she says, noncommittal. All but admitting she hasn’t.

I sigh. “For this to work, we need footholds in all the Grand Rites. Where else would you go?”

“I was thinking of staying a bit out of the way, but closer, into DC. That’s still under Europe, technically,” she states. She’s right, of course, but given how Magister Scott has been moving and the woman she had me help over the summer’s secret that she needed destroyed, I suspect not for long. A decade at most. And as the climb becomes more overt, that will isolate the Magisters from these Villae from becoming Maestros in the Old World Rite. Paris might be immune due to her family back home, but that will put us in a weaker position.

But I can’t go revealing Magister Scott’s secrets, not directly and not without consequences, so instead I look at her grimly. “We both know that isn’t close enough. And saying things like that makes me think you’re giving up,” I state, trying to goad her into action.

“Go fuck yourself,” Paris spits back with unfiltered vitriol.

“Look, between the three of us, we each,” I start to say when Mickey steps through the doors and spots us. As she walks over, we both grow quiet, replacing our vocalized venom with a savage staredown.

“Alright, you two,” Mikayla says, immediately noticing the evident irritation in the room, “What’s going on? Why are you so upset?”

I start to weigh how much to reveal to Mikayla versus how much to keep quiet. Clearly, Paris made that decision far swifter, as she almost immediately spits out, “Qasim’s still sexting with that Magister from the Convention.”

Mickey chuckles and holds up her hand in my direction. I gladly accept the high-five, as she says, “Nice.”

Paris shakes her head. “It’s not like you, he’s actually planning on going there,” she points out.

Mickey purses her lips in thought, and admits, “Less nice. Though, to be fair to Qasim, she was pretty attractive.”

“Thank you,” I say, then to Paris, I insist on adding, “Also it’s mostly not sexting. It’s just the filters in the wards mostly ignore sexual messages so that’s the easiest way to talk theory accurately online to or from a warded building.”

“Much less nice,” Mickey jokes, frowning facetiously at him. “And you should be super relaxed because of all the sexting. What has you wound up?”

I decide that the worst case scenario is the best option to share, to avoid any of the follow-up questions I can’t trust Mickey to know the answers to. “Paris is never going to be a Magister at this rate,” I state.

“You still haven’t accepted any of the offers?” Mickey says, slightly surprised.

Paris shakes her head. “I’m waitlisted at a couple places, I was waiting for them.”

Our slightly more normal friend shakes her head and says, first to me, “Look, Paris has been a Magister since before she was a Prospective.”

“Thank you?” Paris responds, unsure of whether that is a complement.

“But Seriously,” she adds, turning towards Paris, “The only way a spot opens up from the waitlist this late in the game is a horrible final project related death, and those are rarer and rarer. Just pick a place and accept, before their irritation at your delaying outways their desire to have a Williams at their Villa.”

“I’ll do it over the weekend, I guess,” she says.

“Great, now are you going to tell me what’s actually going on?” Mickey says with a smile.

Paris shrugs. “That was what’s actually going on,” she answers.

“Or at least, close enough for government work,” I joke, “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m about to go into a meeting with she who must not be named and if I don’t have something fun to talk about, she’ll become focused on questioning my life and decisions.”

Paris grins. “Ooh, what decisions have you made recently worth our dearest advisor questioning?” she jokes.

“You can go to hell,” Mickey says. Some Freshmen walk in, sitting around in a study group-esque circle.

Paris continues to press. “Oh, so it’s real juicy,” she jokes. “Got any guesses, Qasim?”

I’m about to joke with them when I recognize one of the freshmen. He was in a meeting with Magister Scott when I went over to play chess before winter break. And he’s not one of our fellow advisees. “Let’s walk and talk,” I say, trying to keep it casual, “Don’t want Mickey to be late to such a fun grilling, do we?”

Paris is about to reply sarcastically when she notices my gaze is towards the freshman, and instead looks to Mickey, who got the message instantly. We stand up and start to walk out. “You have to relax,” Paris says to Mickey as we pass the kids and make our way outside, “It’s not like Magister Scott is the devil. She’s just really really good friends with them.”

Walking through the city, Mickey smirks and adds, “Like Qasim is just really good friends with that Magister lady?”

I shake my head. “Never met the devil before, but I think their personalities might be a bit too similar to mix well.”

Paris chuckles. “True. They’re probably closer to frenemies with a lot of tension,” she jokes.

As we reach the offices, I decide to be a bit helpful at least. “If you really need to deflect, just talk about Keighley and Irene. That always makes her laugh hysterically. Or, well, chuckle under her breath, but it’s basically the same for her.”

“Wait,” Mickey says, stopping, “They’re still going at it?”

I grin. “Nah, it’s better than that. They’re pretending it never happened while still hanging out in increasingly intimate settings.”

Mickey laughs. “Oh, that’ll work,” she says, between chuckles as she heads inside.

As the door shuts behind her, I turn back to Paris, my smile fading as we start to walk to the coffeeshop. “So, are you actually going to do it this weekend?” I ask.

Paris glowers, but nods. “Yeah, I guess. I just,” she sighs before conceding, “I know, it’s dumb. Nicole is already accepted into the Basilica’s internal program. What about Brendan?”

“Upset at the state of the Magisterium and begrudgingly heading to the Christchurch Villa. Just as we needed. Have you checked in with Justin lately?”

“No, but we’ve got a meeting set up on Sunday out at the cathedral. Knowing the pair, I suspect it’ll all be fine. Probably. Assuming he actually did more than the bare minimum.”

I nod. “Probably busy enough to be safe, but eyes and ears,” I remind her.

“I know,” she replies as we reach the coffee shop, “I’m not an idiot.” We order some coffee and sit down to wait. “I assume you’ve already finished your Meta final?” she muses.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Not yet,” I reply, “I only finished the theoretical framework. Need to flesh it out to something I can test.” Then, with a shrug, I casually add, “So, by the end of the month I should be set. What about you?”

Paris shrugs. “I have the sources and a solid idea of what I’m going to do, but I need to work out the specifics. Fortunately, unlike you, I understand how to plan and schedule my life rather than obsessively focus on whatever I find interesting in the moment.”

I stand up as I see our coffees are ready. With a shrug as I head over, I reply, “Hey, if it works, it works.” Then, to the barista, I add, “Thanks, have a good day,” as I pick up our coffees.

“You too, Qasim,” the barista replies. He recognizes me. I come here too often subconsciously. It’s the easiest non-chain coffee place to get to from the Magisters’ office building. Need to remember to mix it up a bit more often. I bring the coffee over to Paris.

She notices my look. “What is it?”

“Guy recognized me,” I say, which I figure should be enough to explain it.

She looks up at him, then chuckles. “Good call, but not quite as bad as you think,” she explains, knowing roughly what concerns me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“He was devouring you with his gaze while we were sitting down,” she explains. “Wanting to sleep with you probably explains him remembering you.”

I shake my head. “Still, too often if he knows my name rather than just the hot one.”

Paris chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’ll never be the hot one, so long as you keep hanging out with almost any of your friends. I mean, have you seen us?”

“Wait,” I joke, grinning wider than any other time today, “We’re friends? You gotta tell me when you make big decisions like that.”

“I would, but you tend to make terrible decisions where other people are concerned,” she replies, smirking, “After all, why would I ever trust anyone that would be friends with me to have good advice about friendship?”

I laugh. “Good point.” then with a sigh, I get us back on some kind of track. “So, when’s your meeting with Miss Scott?”

“Week from tomorrow. I wanted a good reason to get drunk at my dorm’s party at the end of the month. What about yours?”

“Sunday. But I doubt we’ll have much to talk about,” I reply, “We mostly just talk practical specifics and play chess.” Then, after a pause, I add, “Oh and the occasional favor, but I think we’re close even currently, which should mean she’s not going to ask anything unless it’s urgent.”

“One can hope,” Paris says, shaking her head.