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Interview

“Do you know why I called you here today, Alice?”

The Dean’s office was… well, it was a Dean’s office. It was the office of a Dean. Somebody had very clearly looked around other Dean’s offices around the world and said, “please build me a completely soulless facsimile of that, thanks” to their interior decorator. It had everything: red drapes, a globe that probably up into a mini-drinks bar, and teak. Lots of teak.

Morgan, the Dean in question, had declined to sit and was instead pacing the length of her desk. Alice had heard this was a power move in business circles because it made sure you were talking down to your conversational partner, but she was a tall girl; Morgan, by no means short herself, found herself closer to eye level than expected.

Nor, to be honest, did Morgan need to indulge in power plays. There was something about her – the intensity of her gaze, marred only slightly by the bags accumulating under her eyes – that suggested being dishonest with her was a lethally stupid move.

“Because you’re doing the same interview with every student who arrived in my cohort. There’s a queue,” Alice answered.

“Good. At least your eyes work. So, let’s get this out of the way quickly,” Morgan said, abandoning all pretences of dignity and settling into her chair with a sigh. It looked like a very comfortable chair, and she made no secret of enjoying it. “What do you hope to achieve out of studying here?”

The same deer in the headlights instinct towards honesty possessed Alice again, and she said: “Um, tenure?”

Morgan smiled, the way that crocodiles smile just before they opened their mouths. “I see. I think it’s wonderful when people are motivated by money. Makes everything nice and easy. But you can make money anywhere. You’re bright enough. Why here?”

“I’d like a job,” Alice began, “where I can read.”

And then Morgan stared at her, and words began to tumble from her mouth. She heard herself saying that she wanted a house with a study and a parlour, so she could sit and read a book while she drank tea. Libraries were good. She loved libraries. But they didn’t allow drinks, and that was ironic because students and librarians and professors were all powered by caffeine, and –

“I get it,” Morgan said, waving off the rest of the explanation. “Well, Alice. You’ve got a good reputation, and some ambition. I could see a future where I welcome you as one of my academic colleagues here. I expect you to work hard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, but you are missing one vital qualification for our professors.” Morgan looked at her critically; it made her want to shrivel up into a ball. “We like our professors to have a certain… gravitas.” She paused again. “Tits, basically. You’ve got some, but that’s a student level chest. You hang around with that puppy from Astrolibert, right? That’s more what we’re looking for.”

“But what does bust size have to do with magic?” Alice asked, incredulous. “And even if there is some kind of correlation, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“If you look at all the strongest mages here, they’re stacked,” Morgan shrugged. Her own chest jiggled when she did. “There’s just a correlation between the size of the rack and the size of the spell.” She paused again. “And kid, you’re in a university for magic. If you can’t think of a way to get bigger tits somehow, I’m going to start doubting your problem solving skills. I don’t care if they’re an illusion or you’ve gotta magic them up before every class, but it’s non-negotiable if you’re aiming to be a professor here. Alright, time’s up. Send the next person in on your way out.”

Alice frowned. “Wait! But… What would you have done if I was a guy?”

“We’ve got different criteria for male professors,” Morgan said, airily. “Every wizard’s got a big dick. It’s not special. Give a guy magic and making his dick bigger is usually the second or third thing they’ll try. Most of them overdo it and then can’t change it back. You’ll get to know more about it if you get to my position. Now scram.”

This was advice that Alice very happily took. The path to reading peacefully in her parlour with a cup of tea seemed to have grown closer, but also much further away.

Nothing a little research couldn’t fix.

Beach

Alice has never been one to go to beaches. Not really. The beaches of Merland are cold and grey as ash; the seaside attractions do little but paint a thin veneer of cheer over an otherwise depressing landscape. She much prefers the lush meadows and wildflowers further inland, fields glimpsed once by train and then left to the imagination.

Pamela, though – her new friend who is bouncy in every respect – is a beach lover. She was from the west coast of Astrolibert, or the east, one of the two, and she has a love for the feeling of warm sand between her toes. She can surf, or so she claims; to be frank, Alice will believe that when she sees it.

Belsev has beaches, but they are closer to what Alice remembers than what Pamela expects. But the auburn-haired puppy still frolics as if the sun is beaming down on her with all its might, overjoyed by the chance to show off her swimsuit once more.

“I’m surprised that thing doesn’t snap,” Tiffany grumbles.

Alice’s sister, churlish as she is, has a point. It’s a good thing that all three of them are mages, because Pamela’s swimsuit is held on by either magic or prayer. It’s modest, in theory: a one piece suit with high V cut legs and a plunge to the chest, but it covers the essentials. But there’s only so much give in that elastic, and Pamela’s chest is pushing that envelope.

“Yours is no better,” Alice scolds her sister lightly.

“I’m a small girl, so I need a small bikini. Got a problem?” Tiffany asks.

The problem, Alice thinks, is that she did not particularly want to know what the crest of her sister’s pubic mound looks like, but some things are better left unsaid. Alice herself is dressed modestly, with an elegant sarong and a t-shirt tied to show off just a little of her stomach. She has no intention of going near the ocean, and if it approaches her, she’ll have stern words to say about the matter.

She huffs a sigh, and plants a beach umbrella in the sand. She bought a new paperback from the train station; if she’s going to take a trip to the shore, she might as well read a book to the sound of the ocean waves. Her sister prowls off to talk to some of the men Pamela inevitably attracted, and Pamela herself seems to have left the sea to its own devices and is instead seeing how big a hole she can dig.

Things are soothing, for a time.

But then Pamela reaches out for her, insistent on teaching her the finer points of sandcastles. She pauses. Deliberates. Snaps her book shut.

When she stands up, she feels the sand between her toes. It is not warm. But it’s warm enough, and Pamela’s hand in hers is warmer still.

Alice has never been one to go to beaches. But she will allow herself to be pulled.

Wallflowers

Alice grimaces. She’s never been a fan of parties; the music is too loud for her sensitive ears, and she’s never done well in places with too many people.

But parties, apparently, are one of the formative parts of the student experience. Here is where relationships are formed, connections woven. Here is where the map for the rest of their lives will be drawn.

Well, according to Pamela, anyway. The dog is buried deep in the centre of the crowd, drawn inextricably to the wafting scent of alcohol. She chugs beer from plastic cups, laughs so loudly even the music cannot blot her out. Even in a room with so many people, her presence looms large over the proceedings.

Alice, meanwhile, has retreated to the outskirts, armed with a Bloody Mary she thought she might like but didn’t, and waits in anticipation of the headache that is sure to come. She’s not the only one. Introverts are found everywhere, hidden in the cracks of social structures, and one of them happens to catch her eye.

“You came with Pam, didn’t you?” she asks.

He glances at her sideways, his ears twisting to catch her words over the music. He’s a wolf, not tall but well-built, and surprisingly fine-featured. There’s something about his chin that she likes, and the steadiness of his eyes.

“Yes,” he says, in an accent thicker than she expected. “When she falls over drunk, I am coming to peel her from the floor and be carrying her back to the dorm.”

“Thank the harvest,” she says, wryly echoing the local religion. “I thought I would have to do that.”

He grins, and sips his drink. It’s stronger than she could stomach, smelling faintly of nail varnish and cinnamon, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I’m surprised you’re not over there drinking with her,” she carries on, although she’s grateful for the company. A friendly face, a little commonality, goes a long way to taking the sting out of an unpleasant evening.

“I am not so fond of being in crowds,” he replies, ruefully. “In my country, drinking is a quiet thing. More private.”

She nods, although she’s not sure why. She can imagine him, quietly nursing a drink over a long evening. Perhaps he’d be bent over his desk in the study of a stately house, like the ones back home, sipping whiskey over a cut sphere of ice…

Her imagination tumbles and spins.

There is a cheer from the crowd, and they both raise an eyebrow. It seems that Pamela has attempted dancing, which neither her chest nor her outfit were intended for, and one of her nipples briefly broke containment. She’s howling with laughter like the rest of them, but the wolf rolls his shoulders; it seems he’s calling time.

By the time he’s broken her free of the crowd, Pamela is almost too drunk to walk. As Alice watches her clinging to his broad shoulders, she can’t help but feel just a touch jealous.