For Treacle’s weighty contraption, Crucible asked for the minotaur’s help in holding the chair over the edge. They both struggled to keep from dropping it. The wheelchair was small, but solidly built, and Crucible nodded in satisfaction. That was about as close as you’d get to praise in the class.
Logan approached, nervous.
His chair passed just fine. Crucible grunted. “It is an adequate chair, Mr. Murray, one that would not hold my weight, but would probably seat the mediocre just fine. Now, where is the goat boy’s work?”
Marko danced up, holding his masterpiece.
Crucible took it in one hand.
Logan watched Marko’s face light up. “See how pretty it is. And that carving is in homage to my buddy GK. I made it just for him.”
“Uh-huh.” Crucible held the gaudy piece of furniture out. It turned to dust in his hands. “We needed an Exogenous item, Mr. Laskarelis, not Endogenous. This will not help your grade, the ranking of your cohort, nor the ranking of your clan. I’m sure Rockheart will not be pleased.”
Marko put his head back. “Dude, I worked so hard on making it pretty. I didn’t think about the blueprint matrix of the thing. Do I get any credit?”
“Pretty is for dinner dates, fine dogs, and sunsets, son. Pretty is tolerable if there’s function first.”
With that, Professor Crucible stalked off, leaving the class alone. Not even bothering to dismiss them—not that he ever bothered to dismiss them.
Logan considered his adequate chair. “What do we do with them?”
Treacle pushed a button and his chair chugged to life. A hidden electric heart, like a small sun, buzzed merrily along, powering the engine’s army of pistons. “We get to keep them. Take a seat, Logan. I was getting tired of lugging you around when we had to run someplace. Here’s your Forevergreen gift by the way.”
Logan climbed up and realized it fit him perfectly. That was why it was so small. “Forevergreen? What’s that?”
Marko got on the back and shouted, “Joyride!” Then he reached and hit a switch. The wheelchair went screaming off as Inga covered her hands with her face.
Logan couldn’t see it, but he was pretty sure that Treacle was grinning.
That night, over dinner in the Golden Serpent Hall, Logan heard all about the Forevergreen Festival. It was basically Christmas, a holiday in the middle of winter, when snow was everywhere, and spring seemed like a dream too good to be true. That weekend, Shadowcroft’s would be celebrating the festival with a big party, food, drink, and dancing. According to Marko, GK was brewing up his own hooch, which would consist of distilled Hydra tears, soonerberries, and GK’s own slime. Which didn’t make it very appealing to anyone not made from living goo.
Logan didn’t eat dinner. He only had a little cup of old coffee, left over from the morning, though he would’ve liked for it to age longer. The fungaloid sat and watched Treacle happily eat his hay, Inga pour honey on her roast beef, and Marko create a pattern on his plate using rice, green beans, and a liberal amount of gravy. Marko would eat eventually, but he was more interested in his artistic masterpiece.
Inga had a book open, reading while they munched, but she shot a sidelong glance at Logan. “Why aren’t you eating?”
He didn’t know what to say.
Marko tried to explain. “It’s kind of gross, Inga. No offense, my fungal friend.”
“None taken.” Logan paused and knew he had to say something. “I actually am eating, just not here. It started with eggs.”
“The egg phase didn’t last long,” Marko said. “I was glad. The rotten eggs did nothing to help the smell of our rooms.”
Inga grinned, her solid black eyes full of wonder. “I understand, Logan. You’re using Digestion. You don’t need to eat here. You can eat anywhere. So you started with eggs, but now what are you using? You get both Apothos and nutrients, right?”
Logan opened his mouth. Even then, he could feel the energy and food filling both his gem and his form.
Marko, again, beat him to the punch. “One whole chicken, recently deceased, that he keeps buried somewhere in his mushroom mansion. I don’t smell it. I don’t like to think about it. I don’t wanna know.”
“Where is it?” she asked.
Logan shook his head. “Not telling. It’s my business. We don’t tease Treacle for chewing his cud. We don’t need to talk about my dietary habits.”
Marko let out frustrated yelp. “Don’t. Wanna. Know. Moving on. Are we giving each other Forevergreen gifts? Because, you know, funds are tight, can’t really craft anything, would probably only give you booze anyway.”
Inga lowered her eyes. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but yes, I have gifts for you all. Books from the library, pulled from the shelves, special reserve.” She snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know, extravagant, but important. Shall we go now? The anticipation of seeing the glee on your faces has been killing me.”
Marko closed one eye and gritted his teeth. “Not really into the Forevergreen Festival. I have some unprocessed holiday trauma, which I kinda want to keep unprocessed.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Treacle said.
Inga wasn’t about to be denied, however.
Logan drove his new wheelchair to the Stairwell of True Seeing. He left it there while they made the trip down to the undercroft. Both Inga and Marko kept their eyes forward and hurried down after him. For Inga, it was about her new appearance. For Marko, it was all about avoiding his past, which seemed to involve the winter holiday.
They’d been going to the library for weeks now, since Chadrigoth and the First Cohort had taken over the Azure Dragon common room like they owned the place. That was okay since the Codex Athenaeum was a good place to study.
However, it was like no library Logan had ever been in. For one thing, the librarian, Madam Orry Gammy, never left the place. She was a rare guardian, a Papyrus Harpy, and her body, head, and wings were made from what looked like folded paper. She was silent, scolding, and she ran the library like it was her own personal dungeon. That meant traps in periodicals, random monster encounters in the stacks, and some peculiar ideas on sorting. She used an ancient version of the Dewey Decimal system that only she and Inga could understand.
Of course, Madam Gammy loved Inga more than anyone, and most of the time, she would only talk with the astral moth. It was love at first book.
The Terrible Twelfth had their own little space reserved at the far end of the library. They had to cross old wooden planks that spanned a dark abyss. The rickety bridge led to the private carrels and tables near windows carved into the cliffs of the island. When the wind was right, the water of Loch Endless blew against the panes.
Most nights, they had the place to themselves.
Once Inga got them situated at their usual table, she went back and got the books she’d put on hold. She had three big volumes, which she handed out in turn. Logan loved the look of happiness and expectation in her eyes.
“For Treacle, I have Tigg Allegg’s heretofore unpublished crafting book, Don’t Stand Naked on My Blueprint.” She gently placed a leather-bound tome, nearly as big as Logan, on the desk.
“For Marko, I have Obb Roso’s lesser-known text, Painting for Joy and Murder.” His book was slimmer, but far more grandiose, with a crushed red-velvet exterior edged in gold.