The note had been folded and unfolded twelve times.
Fournier tucked it deeper into the sleeve of her robe, heart thudding louder with each step through the corridors. The walls of the Magnus halls held countless enchantments, from wards and echo muffles to illusions for sound and privacy, but none could soften the thunder of her pulse in her own ears.
"It's stupid," she muttered.
"You said that already," came a dry voice beside her.
Mathon, Fournier's best friend since she had joined the Magnus Halls, walked with her, keeping her arms folded behind her back like a lecturer on a stroll. She didn't look at Fournier but added. "Also: embarrassing, irrational, and, I believe, 'pathetic,' yes?"
"I didn't say pathetic."
"You thought about it. More than once."
Fournier flushed. "I didn't mean to fall for him. He's just…"
"A living relic from the ages past who dresses like a bum, speaks like scripture, and walks like he's never had to run from anything in his life?"
Fournier paused at the base of the spiral stair, narrowing her eyes. "You think he's beautiful too."
"I do," Mathon said much more easily than Fournier could have. "But I'm not writing him poetry about the way he grips chalk."
"It's not poetry." Fournier lowered her voice. "It's just… a note. A letter. I'm not asking him to love me. I just- want him to know, you know?"
"Oh, I know."
They reached the alcove between halls, just outside the old golem workshop. The door was open a crack, a muted glow spilling through it.
He was inside.
He stood alone at the far table, sleeves rolled just below the elbow, examining what looked like a pile of student-made clay golems. One hand hovered above it, and the other was prodding at seemingly random places.
His eyes were unreadable in profile.
Fournier hesitated.
Mathon leaned against the wall and whispered, "Come on. He's not going to laugh at you."
Fournier didn't respond.
"He's not going to return the feelings, you know that, right?"
"That's not why I'm doing it."
"Then go."
Fournier took a deep breath. Then another.
She moved, one foot after the other, across the threshold and into the workshop.
Her steps felt strangely loud and inelegant.
She stopped a few paces in front of him and cleared her throat gently.
He turned halfway, calmly. "Yes?"
His voice always sounded like that to her. Precise, heavy without being harsh, as though every word had passed through a hundred sieves before reaching the world.
"I- um. I had a question. About… the lecture. On symmetry in limb anchoring."
"Alright. I'll answer it gladly."
Fournier fumbled inside her sleeve, fingers trembling now. "Actually, it's not about the lecture. Not really."
His expression didn't change, though his attention seemed to sharpen.
She offered the note. It was folded with exacting care, sealed with a little petal-pressed wax emblem she had made herself.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, before he could take it. "I know you're- who you are. I know this is… a little strange, maybe. But I wrote this. And I just… I needed- needed to give it to you. That's all. I don't expect anything."
She kept her hand extended, though her whole body screamed at her to retreat.
He looked down at the letter. Then at her.
And he accepted it, even if his hand was smeared with mud and clay.
He didn't open it. Not yet.
"I don't promise response," he said softly. "But I do promise respect."
Fournier's breath was caught in her throat. She gave the smallest of nods.
"I'll be going," she said, her voice almost breaking.
He didn't stop her.
She turned, heart rattling in her chest, and nearly collided with Mathon waiting just outside. Mathon gave her a long look.
"Well?" Mathon asked.
"I gave it to him."
"And?"
Fournier shook her head. "I don't know. He took it. That's all."
Mathon shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe that's enough."