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Just like everything else about shamans, the cafeteria is designed in a building that once was a temple with white stone columns, spacious galleries, and a terrace opening to the blossoming orchard.

And as Gen promised, despite the late hour, the tables are neatly served and blooming with dozens of dainties from practically all over the world that make my eyes widen. I'm not sure I've ever seen this much food at once in my entire life. Is this even real?  Glancing around and making sure there are no familiar faces to start asking questions, I go for the food.

Nobody looks my way when I walk around, collecting as many eatables as one plate can hold, and stroll to a small table in the terrace's corner, away from everyone. The only reproachful glance I get is from a gray-haired, bony shaman who carries not food but a hen in his arms. Did he rescue it from the kitchen? I wonder, but dare not ask as I look after him, proudly striding with his restless bird between the tables. What for? A sacrificial ritual? Not much of a rescue, then. But only now do I realize that I'm the only one with a heap of food on my plate; others humbly take just for a bite or two.

Greed is outdated here, I remember my own thought from when I saw Loretto's apartments. But wouldn't it be? People try to get as much food as they can when they know tomorrow they can have none, earn as many aura gemcoins as those are hard to get--when a fortune is an achievement to brag about. But when you're a shaman with food always served for you, a magician capable of creating as many aura gemcoins as you wish, an achievement is to will yourself from consuming all at once, I guess. The most respectable way is the hardest, and for shamans, the hardest is the most humble. Maybe Loretto also felt proud of refraining from slicing me open the very first day. Of kindly letting me live.

Indignation burns my throat as I shuffle to my hermitical corner table, balancing plates for my grumbling empty stomach in my hands. My family works day and night to earn a living, while shamans here don't know how to spend their wealth and unnaturally long spoiled lives. Carrying chickens around like accessories!

I can't deny that the food is really good, though.

And the food is the most remarkable thing of my next few days.

No news from Cale or Kofi.

No teacher.

Other mentees don't seem to be interested in talking to me anymore, and nor do I wish to spend my time with them. Alone is safer. And my mentor doesn't care to appear anywhere near me as well. At first, it is relieving, but then...unsettling. When someone is away for a while, they definitely plan something big and bad, right?

I spend my days wandering the alleys of Tik'al, waiting as Cale ordered, making mental maps, listening to shamans' gossip, but--disappointingly--just like people in Cabracan, they talk about dull stuff like fashion, cheating neighbors, and work. Or magic, using terms that sound gibberish to my ears. At first, I feel wary of walking so freely at first, of exploring the place I've avoided like fire for my whole life, but it's probably just my paranoia. They think I'm one of them now, I remind myself.

And when the sun burns too hot, I hide in the library.  It's built on the underground floor, beneath the Great Temple, and it is huge. There must be some sorcery added to expand the place because the shelves arranged in rings stretch so far my eyes can't even calculate the length of the aisles between them. A town of book spines. Magicless folks aren't allowed further than the counter by the entrance in the center of the smallest ring, where they can order the books they want, but my mentee's bracelet gives me some perks.

I grab a couple more history textbooks to make it look like I'm actually an obedient student, a volume about sign language--I need to understand Yaling--and a dusty treatise about old mechanisms to figure out how to fix my great-grandfather's watch. Had I still had my aura ring, I could have uploaded all information from the virtual magical database and into a notebook, siphoned the words to write themselves out on the paper as I always had, but now I'm forced to do it the mundane way and browse library shelves.

But there's something romantic about old paper, I guess. The tangibility of the words. The lulling repetition of flipping pages.

Putting a history textbook stand open on the cafeteria table on yet another day of my stay in Tik'al--hiding behind the book--I crack my great-grandfather's watch open and kill time by trying to make the gears work. In the end, the calming repetition of assembling the gears...is not lulling. Because no matter how many times I repair the watch, it stops working a day or two later, and it's killing me. Tiresome. I wish I could just ask my great-grandpa what's wrong with this thing.

The first week bleeds away without news.

What are the chances my mentor forgot about me? I muse, bored, sitting in my usual corner and looking around the cafeteria one morning a week later as shamans crowd the terrace during breakfast. The sweetish orchard air fills the gallery, and the breeze soothingly musses my hair. Should I ask if I can go home? But if I ask, they'll remember.

It's unsettling not to know what to expect. When Ma and Dad had been quiet for a long time, it usually meant a huge fight was coming. And now, the less I hear from Loretto Tayen, the more I wish to, however treacherous fae might be. When someone is away for a while, they definitely plan something big and bad, right? It is like the calm before storm. When you can see the danger--when you run from it--you know exactly what it is, but when there's nothing to do but wait, how can you know exactly what to prepare for?

And there's always danger to prepare for.

Finishing putting the gears together, I hear the watch make tick-tick-tick, but before I can smile, it stops again.

Irked, I shove the watch aside.

Idlyscanning the crowd again, I reach for my teacup and suddenly see a familiar face: the girl I saw in the vestibule the day I was introduced to Loretto. I haven't seen any of the empress's council members eating in the cafeteria, assuming they're too snobbish to share tables with their inferiors, but now, watching the girl, I think her features vaguely resemble those of the head councilor. Perhaps she's his daughter? Or his niece. No wonder, then, that she walks around with such confidence. She is wearing her red robe again, the color draws attention from afar, and when she catches me staring from across the noisy hall, she smiles--almost an invitation to come and say hello.

Her smile--and her attention--are the first ones I get in a week, and I'm surprised to realize how unseen I've actually been feeling all this time without acknowledging it. Something hopeful kindles in my chest. Maybe not all shamans are vile, after all? Maybe she's amiable and down-to-earth? But while I hesitate whether I'm desperate enough to try to talk to her, and weigh my chances of making a friend here, another shaman appears in the gallery.

Loretto.

My pulse quickens, recalling the knife pressed against my throat, but Loretto doesn't see me at my corner table, walking over to the food stalls. My alleged mentor comes alone, doesn't talk to anyone, gives a brief answer to anyone who attempts to start a conversation with faer, and glides past without looking back. Interning. Unlike the red-robed girl, Loretto--despite the flawless sky blue outfit--somehow manages to stay off the spotlight. Nothing seems to draw attention, Loretto moves around the tables like wind, graceful yet untraceable.

Suddenly, like two broken gears of my watch, the red-robed girl and Loretto collide. I'm not sure if it's an accident, or one of them appears in the other's way on purpose, but now they are face to face. Too close for social distance.

From across the hall, I watch them exchange a few phrases. The girl asks something, and Loretto nods. She asks something else, and Loretto shakes faer head. I'd think they were just discussing some news, but then the girl turns her head to look my way--no, right at me. Her expression is unreadable, but the unexpected interest in my personality sends a nervous chill down my spine. They haven't forgotten about me. Loretto doesn't look my way, but faer next answer is something that's seemingly not what the girl wanted. She tosses a lock of her dark hair over her shoulder, a motion full of irritation, then glances at me again--smiles at me again as though I don't deserve her temper--and strides away, leaving Loretto rooted to faer spot.

A long moment passes, and my mentor stands still as though struck by lightning. All faer grace is now gone. An impulse urges me to come over and ask what that all was about, but I force myself to stay in my chair. The quieter the liar I am, the better.

At last, Loretto turns faer head, and--our eyes lock. Some new emotion shines in Loretto's eyes. Something that makes me abandon all my impulses and leaves me lost because I never expected it. Dismay? Alarm? Fear? The emotion is pure and bright, and I can almost feel it knotting Loretto's stomach. A moment, and it flickers off Loretto's face, easing into badly faked indifference.

My mentor turns around and disappears into the crowd.

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