When Veronica had last been a student, the Scholia had still been housed in the palace, in the cold, high-ceilinged rooms Kerish North had claimed for it over a hundred years before. Now, as her carriage took her over the low, rolling hills of central County Cullinan, she leaned out the window and stared, wide-eyed and astonished.
The Scholia wasn’t just one building, as she’d half expected despite knowing the truth; it was more than a dozen buildings of warm, golden stone similar to the walls of Aurilien, solid and reassuring. They looked more like bethels than houses or even businesses, with their arched and spired roofs reaching to heaven. The tallest tower housed a gleaming copper bell Veronica could see even at this distance, which meant it must be enormous.
Emerald lawns as fresh as if fed by the rains of Spring beckoned to her to run barefoot across them, though the gravel paths cutting across them indicated a more conventional kind of traffic. There weren’t many people outside at the moment, so classes must be in session. Despite her resolve to be forthright and assertive, Veronica felt relieved that her arrival wouldn’t be a grand entrance. The former Consort grants the Scholia the honor of her presence…no, today she wanted to be only one prospective student among many.
An arched stone gateway stood athwart the road, grayer than the many Scholia buildings. There was no wall surrounding the campus, and no gate, just an opening that curved to a point in a tall stone tower with the Scholia crest carved into its face. It was symbolic rather than defensive, and Veronica liked the idea of passing from the outside world into a dedicated place of learning. It made this venture feel even more like starting something new.
She leaned back in her seat and waited for the carriage to come to a halt outside the largest of the buildings, then allowed the driver to help her down, though she didn’t need assistance. She’d already discovered the woman felt honored to drive the former Consort, and Veronica didn’t mind giving her a chance to feel she’d done something to exercise that respect.
“I’ll wait here, Lady North, if that’s all right,” the woman now said. “Unless you think it will be a while?”
“I don’t know how long this will take. Please rest yourself and the horses, and I’ll send someone if it’s likely to be longer than an hour.” Veronica’s attention was already on the building, which was constructed in the Valantine style of some two hundred and fifty years previous. She examined the spires, which weren’t as tall as the bell tower but were more ornate, and admired the flying buttresses. Valantine architecture wasn’t her favorite period, but she had to admit the construction allowed for enormous stained glass windows in walls that no longer had to support the whole weight of the building as the earlier Harandan style had required. This building had two of those windows flanking the enormous double doors of new oak, depicting a man and a woman engaged in study. A little obvious, but the deep jewel-like colors were beautiful.
She put her hand to the door and discovered it swung open as easily as if it weighed nothing at all. So, the builders had adopted more modern design elements instead of slavishly imitating true Valantine construction. She approved of that.
Beyond, a dark hallway made darker by her light-acclimated eyes extended deep within the building. A handful of people occupied it, going in and out of doors or walking toward or away from her. She stood aside for two people to exit. Neither of them did more than nod. She wasn’t as conspicuous as she’d feared.
She removed her bonnet and let her eyes adjust before walking forward. It was cooler inside, a welcome change from the heat of the Summer day. More heavy oak doors, these smaller and banded with iron—another Valantine touch—lined the hall on both sides. Veronica’s feet in their soft shoes made almost no sound on the dark floor, which felt smooth despite the rough-hewn look of the stones.
A wide staircase at the far end rose to a landing ornamented with another stained glass window, this one depicting a host of people surrounding a giant book. That was even more obvious than the other two. Passing a few more people, each dressed in the dark robe and red stole of a Master, she ascended to the second floor. It looked just like the first, though the floor was of plain wooden slabs instead of stone. Each door was set into an arch flanked by wooden posts carved to look like pillars twined with ivy. The pillars were Valantine, the ivy a whimsical touch, and Veronica felt a growing desire to meet the craftspeople responsible.
She counted doors until she came to the fourth on the left. None of the doors were labeled. Presumably, if you belonged here, you knew which door was whose. Veronica, still alien—for now—had to rely on the instructions the Magister had sent her. She knocked lightly, then, when there was no immediate response, knocked again hard enough to make her knuckles tingle. A muffled response came from within, and Veronica decided it was an invitation.
The small, cubical room beyond was windowless, but the light of several lanterns illuminated it almost as brightly as sunlight. Paintings of landscapes from all over Tremontane hung on every wall like little static windows on the outside world. The furnishings, a desk, a glass-fronted cabinet, and three chairs, were neither modern nor Valantine, but a more baroque style Veronica put at about fifty or sixty years old, near the beginning of the Sylvestran period. It was an odd choice, but the furniture was elegant and expensive, and Veronica recognized someone’s personal taste in the decision.
One of the chairs was occupied by a man who looked barely an adult. He had a blank book balanced on his knee and was scribbling furiously. Veronica didn’t look to see what he was writing, though his intensity roused her curiosity. A young woman sat behind the desk. She wore her hair piled high on her head in a haphazard manner, secured by two sticks in the Veriboldan fashion, and looked rather harried. She didn’t look up as Veronica entered. “Yes?”
“Veronica North to see the Magister,” Veronica said.
The youth’s head came up abruptly, and his pencil made a black line across his writing. The woman’s expression went from harried to astonished and stopped at embarrassed. “Oh! Lady North, I apologize, I forgot—” She shuffled through a stack of papers as if she hoped an excuse for her rudeness might spring out of them. “I do beg your pardon. You’re to go right in, of course.”
Veronica smiled and nodded. She’d found, over the last thirty years, that calmness and a reluctance to take offense could carry someone far. “Thank you.”
The second door looked the same as the first, iron-banded oak, so it was only her imagination that it glowed with promise. Veronica knocked, just to be polite, and then opened the door.
Bright sunlight met her eyes, making the secretary’s office seem dim by comparison. The light came from a row of windows overlooking the lawns and the bell tower. Though they had heavy maroon curtains, all the drapes were drawn back, and between the windows’ size and the gleaming brightness of their panes, the effect was similar to that of Queen Genevieve’s old drawing room near the top of the palace, which had floor to ceiling windows on two of its walls. It felt as if the outdoors was only waiting for an invitation to enter.
The furnishings matched the ones in the secretary’s office, the desk and cabinetry ornamented with so many curlicues and carved oak leaves they looked more like art pieces than functional furniture. The carpet was Eskandelic and floral and perfectly matched the ornate desk and the maroon curtains. A brass chandelier hung from the high ceiling, unlit and doing nothing to illuminate the room, but its crystals caught the sunlight and fractured it into tiny rainbows.
Donald Montgomery, the Magister of the Scholia, rose from his seat behind the desk. “Lady North, welcome,” he said in his thin, wispy tenor. “Please, have a seat.”
The Magister’s manners were as old-fashioned as the décor, Veronica reflected; he knew not to offer his hand to a lady, as it had formerly been the lady’s decision whom to shake hands with. Veronica extended her hand for him to clasp. His grip was firm, and his skin was as dry and inelastic as her own. It was so strange to realize he was only a few years older than she.
She sat in one of the two spindle-legged chairs, also of the same baroque Sylvestran era, pulled up to face the desk. Its cushion was firm and well-compressed, not soft, which confirmed her guess that all this furniture was antique, not modern copies. Someone had spent a fortune equipping these two rooms.
“Your letter was quite a surprise,” the Magister was saying. “I didn’t realize you had been a Scholia student.”
“It was a long time ago,” Veronica said. “I left because I married and had a child, and there were other demands on my time. But I loved my studies.”
“Yes, I’m sure the Consort must be very busy.” The Magister leaned back in his seat and folded his thin hands atop the desk. “But now…I apologize if this is rude, but surely your time is still occupied? One hears of the Dowager Consort opening charity hospitals, supervising different organizations…”
Veronica suppressed her irritation at his term of address. He was only being polite. “I enjoy helping others, of course, but much of what I do could be done by anyone. I feel drawn to complete my course of study—surely that’s not so unusual?”
“Of course not, of course not. But the Dowager Consort—”
“Please, I would prefer you call me Lady North.” Veronica was far too informal for their proposed relationship, though she doubted she could have gotten him to use her first name even if they were to be colleagues. “And my title is irrelevant when it comes to scholastic pursuits. When I was a student, I had any number of colleagues who were noble. One of them later became the Baron of Hightop. And the instructors treated us all the same.”
The Magister nodded. “Certainly. My apologies.” He sat forward. “You realize, with the interruption to your studies—the time that has passed—you’ll have to repeat some of the coursework.”
“I expected that. I had thought…perhaps some sort of evaluation, to know where I should be placed?” Veronica’s heart beat faster, and she felt like kicking herself. Becoming nervous over something so simple as taking charge of her own education! She should have done this years ago, if she had grown so timid.
“I intended to propose that, yes.” The Magister’s hands flexed once, his bony fingers extending and relaxing. “I am certain you won’t need to repeat much. Architecture, after all, stays where it’s put, yes?” He chuckled, and Veronica laughed with him, though it hadn’t been much of a joke.
“Yes, and it’s been a hobby of mine over the last thirty years, observing new trends in construction,” she said.
“Excellent, excellent.” He smiled. Veronica’s eyes were drawn to the gleam of sunlight off his bald head. He might be a reflective surface in full daylight. She silently chided herself for the cruel thought, but not very hard. “If I may be direct, the fees are not small.”
A reflective, greedy surface. “I can afford them. And I intend to make a bequest to fund another student as well. Someone deserving who otherwise might not be able to afford schooling. I’m sure you know of someone who fits that description.” She knew it came close to bribery, but she did not intend to be denied, and if her money could grease some wheels, all the better.
The Magister’s smile deepened, making him look like a hairless cat who’d found the cream pot. “Your generosity is astounding, my lady.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Then I suppose it’s just a matter of scheduling,” the Magister continued. “You’ll want to arrange for lodgings in Knightsbury, which is the closest—”
“Actually, I had hoped to stay on campus,” Veronica said. “I understand you have housing for students?”
The Magister’s mouth fell open slightly, and his fingers jerked again. “Why, yes, but…surely the Dow—Lady North would prefer…they’re not luxurious, and I don’t know—”
“I know I am not your usual kind of student, but I would rather not draw any more attention to myself than necessary.” Veronica leaned forward a little, a gesture that invited the Magister to lean closer as well. “Please, Magister. I may be royalty, but that does not make me any better or worse a student than someone who came up from the gutter on a scholarship. Or on my scholarship. Surely you can indulge me in this one whim?”
The Magister now looked as if the cream pot had been unexpectedly full of vinegar. “Certainly, certainly,” he said, not sounding very certain. “If you…that is, it is an additional expense, but there are always rooms…of course you know your own mind.”
“I do.” Veronica met his gaze directly. She refused to entertain the discomfort she always felt in confronting someone. This was nothing. It barely qualified as a confrontation. And she would not let her own stupid diffidence interfere with getting what she wanted—what she was increasingly convinced she needed.
The Magister smiled, some of his good humor restored. “Then…welcome to the Scholia, Lady North. The Autumn term begins in approximately five weeks, during which time your instructors will determine your revised course of study.”
“Thank you, Magister.” Veronica rose, prompting the Magister to mimic her. “I appreciate your willingness to accommodate me.”
“Not at all, not at all. I am certain you will make a fine Master someday.” The Magister smiled again. The expression made his words sound less patronizing. Veronica shook his hand again without saying anything, and excused herself.
The carriage driver rose from where she’d been seated on the ground when Veronica approached. “That was quick, my lady,” she said. “Where else can I take you?”
“I’d…actually, I think I’ll take a look at the buildings,” Veronica said. “Do you mind waiting a little while longer?”
“Of course not.” The woman leaned against the carriage as if to suggest she could comfortably wait all day. “Take your time, my lady.”
The gravel paths were laid out in a random way Veronica suspected would show a pattern if observed from the air. If so, the birds were the only ones who appreciated it. Students in ordinary shirts and trousers and a few black-robed Masters crossed the lawn more directly, ignoring the paths in favor of getting from one place to another as quickly as possible. Veronica stuck to the paths, feeling even more like an outsider despite the Magister’s words. She also felt, superstitiously, as if walking the paths invoked some kind of sympathetic magic that bound the students to this place, invoking the lines of power on their scholastic behalf. It was an odd thought, but it satisfied her.
Almost all the buildings resembled the main one, with towers and arches that led nowhere and fluted columns and many, many stained glass windows. Veronica had heard Duncan complain, not very sharply, about how much of the treasury had gone into building the Scholia. Now she understood his concerns. The architects had outdone themselves if what they wanted was to recreate Valantine architecture on the scale of the palace, but more unified, and it must have cost a fortune. If the Crown had paid for even half of what she saw, it would have been an unparalleled expenditure.
But it was beautiful. Valantine architecture en masse was an awe-inspiring sight, even to Veronica’s eyes. The few buildings that didn’t match, set well back from those circling the courtyard, looked like stables, a dairy, and perhaps housing for servants. Even those were beautiful, if modest. Veronica suspected they were intended not to draw the eye away from the main part of the campus.
The lone building near the courtyard that did not match the others still bore the marks of the architects’ vision; it had only one spired tower, was low to the ground, and had no stained glass windows, only rows of square four-paned ones in plain brown wooden frames. Even so, like the outbuildings, it didn’t look out of place. It looked, Veronica mused, like the younger brother of all the other buildings that would eventually grow to look like them.
The sound of an argument drifted toward her on the warm breezes, coming from an open window in the low building. Veronica altered her course so she wouldn’t come close enough to eavesdrop, but she could still tell it was a man and a woman who were very angry. The idea that anyone might feel inclined to argue in this peaceful place disturbed her. Then she laughed at herself. Of course people still argued. This was the Scholia, not heaven.
She left the argument behind and headed for the center of the pattern of paths, where the second largest building stood. Though it was smaller in size than the Magister’s administration building, it was the tallest, with the bell tower a slim finger pointing to heaven. The oak doors stood open, revealing an open space filled with pews. Veronica had not expected to find a bethel on the Scholia grounds, at least not one so large.
She entered, curious to see this unexpected sight. No candles were lit, and the warm Summer air filled the space, which would otherwise be cool and dark. Veronica sniffed the air, but smelled nothing but the warm green scent of grass and the darker smell of wood from the pews aligned on both sides of the central aisle. The niches in the walls for private prayer were all empty, and the dais at the head of the bethel’s main room bore rows of upholstered chairs, also unused. The room felt completely unoccupied. Veronica had heard others speak of sensing heaven’s presence in a bethel, but that had never happened to her.
She walked around the periphery, looking into the niches. Each was equipped with a padded kneeler and a copy of the Book of Haran. Veronica wasn’t sure how anyone could consider this private, given that you would have the entire bethel at your back and the niches were shallow, but again, worship wasn’t something she cared much for. It was a very nice bethel, though, less ornate on the inside than the Magister’s office, and she wondered how much use it saw.
When she exited the bethel, the green lawns and pebbled paths were crowded with people. Surprised, she stood with her hand on the door frame and watched for a few minutes. Students laughed and chattered at top volume, or strode along in conference with black-robed figures wearing red or blue stoles. Some of them ran, dodging others, from one building to another. Veronica felt overwhelmed at the noise and commotion. Then she remembered she’d chosen this, and her disquiet faded. She would learn to be part of this institution, and all of this would be a commonplace.
Even so, she waited a little longer until the paths cleared before making her way back to her carriage. She had five weeks to prepare, and so much to do in that time. Including telling Elspeth what she had in mind; she hadn’t informed her niece she intended to return to the Scholia, just in case the worst happened and they wouldn’t have her. Elspeth hated injustice and was likely to have come down hard on the Magister to get him to change his mind, and Veronica didn’t want that kind of help.
“Back to Knightsbury,” she told the driver. As the Magister had suggested, it was the closest city to the Scholia, only a mile away, and she’d taken rooms there after the two-day journey from Aurilien. “Thank you for your service.”
“It’s my pleasure, my lady,” the woman said. “May I ask—were you successful?”
Veronica settled herself in the carriage. “I was,” she said. “I’m a Scholia student again.”