Therese Working on Her Thesis

I’m about halfway through my irish coffee at this, my fourth favorite bar in the area, when something surprising enters through the door. One of my advisees, and not the one who I told to meet me. Mister Najjar seems calm as he walks in, trying to put on an air of familiarity even though he does not drink so that he can scan across the bar. Spotting me, he walks over and sits down across from me. I take a sip of my drink. I don’t try to hide my surprise, but I don’t emphasize it for his sake. Either he can tell, or he can’t. Neither matters.

“Mind if we talk?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say back, mostly a joke. “How did you find me here?”

Dana shrugs. “You taught a class in the psych building today, but you have your second day of testing for your thesis. You are a borderline alcoholic so you generally get drinks after classes on Friday, but you need one with coffee. Only one bar that serves passable coffee in between the psych building and the illusive offices that I’ve ever noticed you in and or going to.”

I am intrigued. Mister Najjar does not seem the sort to care about my life that much. “Do you have a reason for tracking me, or is there something you haven’t been sharing with the class?” I muse aloud. I’m missing a piece. There is something more to this man.

He doesn’t answer, meaning it’s the latter. People tend to be upfront about what they want. “I need help finding a good internship for me. I know it is necessary to graduate, but,” he pauses, likely trying to formulate his words for my benefit, “I would prefer to focus on my own work and study.”

I nod. This is exactly what surprises me about Mister Najjar tracking me. He is obsessive about his learning, practice, and invention. Might be a truly promising mystic in the future, but a terrible magister. Without a support network, he’ll flounder for a bit as a magister, before he finally gets around to writing up a thesis and becoming a Maestro that no one cares about. “So are you seeking aid in finding one, advice about what to look for, or wondering about the intentions of one you already found?”

My advisee stops and thinks. “Whichever of the first two you feel more comfortable sharing. More the former than the latter, but either works. I need an internship that on the surface looks good for applying to Magister positions, but will still allow me to spend most of my summer in the workrooms.” The workrooms. Last summer he was in the library. Moving to the workrooms means he’s focusing on practical applications of his study. Perhaps I was wrong about no one caring about his Maestro. He might turn into something more akin to the late Gomez or Qodirova, Maestros who could be relied on for their ability in the protection of the Villa.

“There are such people out there. It would be easier if you had done an internship last year as I recommended,” I pointed out to him.

Dana shook his head. “That would have defeated the point,” he replies, “I had plans last summer, too.”

He misunderstands me. More magisters have need of research assistants, people who they send to libraries to look up information. A magister with a family who wants an intern staying fulltime in a library is easy enough to find. There are no such people with workrooms, as anyone whose thesis involves a practical element would either do or oversee it themselves. “Even still, it could be arranged,” I reply to my own thoughts, before asking, “Paperwork, planning, or politics?”

“In that order,” he replies, believing I might not be able to find an appropriate internship with his first choice of work. Fortunately for him, paperwork is one of those things that many Maestros and above who have goals in life are more than happy to shovel off on an intern, and most interns will not want to do.

“It can be done, if you want me to,” I inform him.

He thinks for a moment before giving a somber nod. He understands that, for the first time in his two years and change of villa life, he owes me one. But he does not leave. He is curious about something. I take another swig of my drink, still waiting on Miss Mascone to show up. I don’t need to talk. Eventually the other person at the table with me will blink. Most people are too impatient.

Sure enough, he does speak up. To his credit, it takes a few more swigs than I expected. But he eventually says, “Do you mind me asking about your thesis?”

“Here?” I reply, “Yes.”

“What’s different about here?” he presses. He’s not learned the art of suspicion, even under my tutelage. I suspect because he does not care. He has no greater goal besides learning and discovery. Both of those do not care about others knowing what he is doing.

“You tell me,” I say, taking another drink.

He looks around. He notices Liz, the Friday bartender, staring at him, but should be able to figure out that is because a man who didn’t order a drink is harassing a customer. His eyes pass over the other patrons as well, before coming back to me. He starts thinking aloud. “You’re surprised by me being here, so you are not worried about anyone else,” he begins. So he did notice the surprise. Interesting. “No one here besides the bartender cares inordinately about us, so it isn’t a tail. Which means it’s just too many people. You’re concerned about the crowd.”

I nod. “Close. Don’t look, listen.” I wait.

He takes a breath in, closes his eyes lightly, and holds his breath before breathing out. “The acoustics of this place are designed around amplifying noise, privacy by turning your discussion into just another tone in the milieu of white noise. But that doesn’t mean people can’t hear you.”

I nod. He understands. He likely disagrees, but he understands. I finish off my drink, and head over to Liz. “Sorry about the kid showing up, he needed help with school stuff,” I inform her as I pay and tip well.

“Don’t worry about it. You look so young, I forget you’re a teacher,” she says, adding, “Change?”

I hold up a hand. “Keep it. And I forget sometimes, too,” I joke with a straight face. She laughs. Olivia is outside, choosing not to come in. She understands better than Mister Najjar. I nod at Mister Najjar to follow, and head outside. “Miss Mascone. Everything ready?” I ask.

Olivia notices Dana following me, and raises an eyebrow. When I don’t reply, she shrugs as we start to walk. “We’re all set up. Applicants should start to arrive around the same time we do. As long as we head through the side door, you should be able to avoid seeing any of them.”

I nod. Perfect. Knowing who was there might skew the experiment. Dana asks, “What is this project anyway?”

I do not answer. Apprentice Mascone recognizes my non-answer and decides to speak. “We have several apprentices showing up to an illusive workroom that has been bespelled by the Maestro and his students to hide the interior from prying eyes. And we will see what we see. The theory is it can be interpreted.”

“Of course it can,” Apprentice Najjar replies, “All illusions do is affect perception based on the reality they’re obscuring. If there is any change in that reality, there will be a noticeable change in the illusion.”

Apprentice Mascone looks between her younger colleague and her advisor slash boss and replies, “perhaps, though my lack of confidence lies in the interpretation. After all, if anything changes the illusion will change, and that includes important things, like people showing up, but also unimportant things like objects being knocked over and the temperature of the room changing. And, without knowing the illusion, I am not sure how confident I am that its changes can be traced back to the hidden area’s changes.”

They continue to argue. They’re both right of course. Not as right as either of them think they are, but right nonetheless. In theory, any change would change the illusion, but most actual rituals account for that. Apprentice Najjar just finds illusive studies uninteresting and will degrade them at any opportunity. And interpreting the changes in illusion to changes in the hidden would be difficult if modern illusive studies weren’t all based on about four different ancient rituals, therefore while the particulars might be different, a lot of the changes should follow similar patterns no matter the modern ritual used. As I’m thinking about it, my burner rings. I look down. It’s William’s number. Why? Not the time for that. I have work today. I dismiss the call. Dealing with him is an issue for after testing. We make it to the illusive studies offices. I slide the phone under a street trashcan and head inside.

Maestro Fitzgerald has set up one of the Magister Lounges as our watch center, tinting the windows to obscure us from view. Olivia sets up a simple scrying ritual to spy on the predetermined workroom, then heads out of the lounge. I set up my own equipment, to monitor the scry so that I can move back through the footage and put specifics in my paper if necessary. Or, more importantly, use that information to reinterpret for my own set up later. Maestro Fitzgerald watches from the corner, silently. He knows me, and won’t interfere with the work or taint the data by saying anything, but the illusive magisters were nervous about me being in their building, so he agreed to watch me the entire time.

Dana asks, after I finish setting up the camera and mic, “Why have Olivia doing the scrying and the legwork?”

“Reputation,” I state. I don’t need him to know about the rotating signatures, just like I don’t need my thesis panel to know that. Gesturing to the Maestro, who smiles, I add, “Most know me. I would prefer as much distance from the data as possible. I told Olivia to target students who did not know me, and were of only moderate skill. Knowing me too well would change what they did, and any greater skill risks them trying to impress and again, skewing the data.”

Dana is silent, thinking about it. Even without any repudiation of his own, he understands the power of one. And he knows mine. He’s processing why that, and the abilities of the person in the room for that matter, might matter to this experiment, so I explain, “Each group of seven people are given an hour. Over the course of that hour they are to go in the room in any number and order they wish, perform at least one ritual in the room, spend as long as they want in the room doing whatever else they want to do, then leave. And we repeat until the evening is done.”

Apprentice Najjar nods. “And if people knew it was you and know your reputation, they might intentionally obfuscate their rituals and actions, whereas if people were powerful enough and thought they could impress the Maestro, they might try to overwhelm his illusions. So ignorant and moderately skilled. Why not those with lesser skill?”

I nod. Good, he noticed. “This is to test a theory, not to strain it. I don’t want all the rituals to be so minor they would not stand out even without an illusive field. Further experimentation can occur if my hypothesis can be shown to be not just possible but realistic and repeatable as well.”

Dana nods. “Otherwise, it is just a parlor trick that can be pulled out to impress, rather than an actual step forwards in the practice of scrying.” And, rather than leave, he stays as the clock hits the hour and the experiment begins. And he stares, just like me, at the scrying pool that Olivia set up.