Lumps, bounces, and bumps paved the way beneath the carriage. It was not a shoddy carriage, thought its single resident therein. Merel, in fact, thought it far too nice for her. She had never ridden in one so extravagant, she thought, her fingertips grazing the wood grain of the paneled door. Not once before the Lodgrey Academy had she experienced such luxury. But the headmistress of the school would not have their most prized scholar walk or ride as she was, so Merel took the carriage.
    The lights of the city were not so distant now as they had been when Merel had asked the driver last to stop so that she might stretch. Yellow and red and white, glimmering as stars, now discernible was the great silver dark foundations of the castle at its core. It reminded Merel of a colony of fireflies bound in one shadbush. She lazily set her cheek upon her forearm, the autumn night making the glass cool to the touch. Aching a bit, she reached down under the shawl she was using as a blanket, and rubbed her stump at her right knee. As much as she loved the softness of autumn, the ache it brought her body was less welcome. She pulled the shawl up and sighed discontentedly. When would they be in? Bluestone could not have been more than a few miles out now. She was getting cramped in here. Why they wouldn’t simply have her take a wagon, she didn’t know. The fresh air was good for her mind, she reasoned. Besides, she was starting to get carriage-sick with the bumps and the thick air, and she did need the exercise.
    The lights faded as they neared the walls, hidden by thick stone and evergreens– though the glow hung in the air like a golden fog. She smelled the city, too– cooking grease, the scent of many bodies pressed together, animals and their waste, and wood. The smell of life! Opening in the window, she let in the cold air, a bluster of it hitting her in the face. “Very nice!” she said to herself, quite sure the driver could not hear her above the rattle of the carriage. A gust of optimism was caught in her sails, and the curtains, caught in the breeze, clung a bit to her face after a second. She spluttered to push them away.
    “Very nice,” she repeated, though more begrudgingly this time. The gate to the city drew near, she thought, her head poking out.
    It was not so much a gate of iron as it was a gate of wood, but looks were not to be believed; she could see the seals on it from here. It was formidable. Nothing would be able to pass through it that was not permitted, she thought, pursing her lips. A very effective warding seal that seemed to answer to a specific individual. Whoever had written the seal had done it by the book, though, the neat curls and stripes over it clearly immaculately done.
    “Papers and writ of entry,” said the soldier calmly as he approached. He had shaggy dark hair, and looked barely above teenaged. Was this who commanded the seal on evening shifts? Well, that entertained her well enough. She suppressed a dry smile and fidgeted through the pouch at her belt, and pulled out the envelope of papers. Within it was her writ of entry, stamped, her official paperwork that certified that she had been sent for by King Fraech of Slaine, and her statement of credibility from Lodgrey. The boy fumbled a bit with the envelope as he unstrung the brads, and she winced, but eventually the white string came undone, and he glanced it over, licking his finger between the sheets. She tried very hard not to say anything.
    “All legitimate,” she said assuredly.
    “You never know with wizards,” the boy affirmed, and she bit her tongue very hard. She had seen poor fraud from would-be wizards before, she could not fault the caution, but the real thing was inimitable– the stamp was meant to be impossible to replicate. The boy handed back her papers. “Have a nice evening, miss. Oh, and sir,” he began to the driver, and their voice lowered as they talked directions.
    Merel faded them out, looking again over the paperwork. The writ of entry. She swallowed her anxiety hard and reread it. The king of Moras had summoned her, by name, to his service. An honor, she thought, that had once been so far from her reach that even now it made her stomach drop. She was going to work with the royal court wizard in the king’s service as his assistant. Every worldly thing she owned was going to be here in Bluestone, where she was to start anew. And given the respect such a position commanded, she would have been mad to pass it up. Mebd had been right, she realized, looking at her writ of entry and invitation letter.
    The borders of the paper were inked in gold, she thought. Such luxury. Such wealth! How expensive it must be, she thought, frightened to even breathe on the paper, to ink something with gold leaf and dust. How fine. What a start this would be, she thought. Fantasies of respectable talk with educated people flashed through her mind, visions of herself as someone who held high her chin and whose eyes glinted intelligently while she sipped fine wine and explained delicately the nature of alchemical formulas and their use in modern research and medicine. It was a dream, thought Merel. A lovely dream, quite nearly in her very reach.
    The carriage passed through the streets, and Merel hesitantly closed the window to keep some of the smell out; the dung and grease smell was so strong she was sure it would stick to her clothing if she didn’t, and the last thing she wanted to do on her first morning was laundry. She had not much in the way of clothing, and if it was dirtied, she would be up a creek without a paddle. If she was to be honest, she was quite sure she’d have a hard time adapting here. There was no need for finery at Lodgrey, no need to consider appearances, no need to perform, no need to play political games. Prestigious academically, unfussy and without any aesthetic sensibility, she thought fondly. Grey indeed! A monastic lifestyle, yes, but a very pragmatic one.
    Everything here was flashy, Merel thought, barely able to peel her eyes away from the window. Even at night, it was gaudy painted signs, bright clothing, colorful lamps, and homes in every color. People wore flashy colors of clothing which Merel never would have dreamed of remotely, let alone worn herself. There was music outside, she thought. The last time she had heard more than just one of the harps or pipes of students practicing in Academy, it had been her birthday, and she had gone back to the Carrafrag. Tadg had played his lute, and her brother had sang whatever vulgar and silly songs had come to him. This music in Bluestone was far more all-consuming, as if the whole city was at a drone.
    “Only a little ways further, miss,” said the driver. Bluestone was not large, spatially. The walls of the city held in any possible sprawl, dense and ancient. She had known that in theory its footprint could not have been more than a few dozen square miles yet face to face, it was impossibly vast.
    “Thank you,” she managed. The journey had not been far. It really was only seventy miles from Lodgrey, but that was two and a half days by carriage. But Merel, painfully shy, had barely caught his name, let alone made any eye contact. She had something of an odd disappointment about the situation between them; a young woman barely elevated above poverty was no better than him, and she didn’t want him to feel that way. Her only distinction was a hard won education, and that took her from ‘lass’ to ‘miss’ in conversation. Merel still had about as much money to her name as a common fishmonger. Probably less than the carriage driver, she mused, since he likely charged good money to the Academy for the fee of his horses and board and long journey. Status, for Merel, was carried in knowledge, implicit in its education and bound in certification, not finances. She was a very fiscally responsible young lady, but that did not bring one wealth. And wizarding certainly did not make one wealthy, either.
    There is an important thing to remember about wizards. A wizard— a true wizard, for not all who create magic spells can use the moniker— has removed their heart. This is not to say they do not feel or have emotions. The heart is still their own, bound to them, capable of as much attachment and depth and breadth as any other person. But the heart is carefully magically removed, bound to an object, and kept safe. There is a good reason for this, of course. Any wizard would tell you that. But it is meant to be a great secret, held within each individual. No other person was to know, but the one who helped part the body and heart from one another, onto which item a wizard’s heart was bound. Nonetheless, Merel did wonder where this wizard’s heart was. She could not help the wondering, when she met a new kinsman. Where was their heart?
    Her own was warm to the touch, trembling. She stilled it, resting her palm against it. They rounded the curve of the castle walls. The wizard’s tower was at the very top of the spire at the front, and if this was where she was to go, it would be a long walk. The Bluestone Hearth, the castle was called, but it was very ancient and very large, much more than just a hearth. It had once been the heart of the first wizard to serve the king of Moras. The whole castle, she thought. Warm. Pulsing. Alive. She shuddered at the very thought of such a feeling. Feet treading in your heart, walls collapsing and rugs being beaten and smoke building in the ceilings of your heart! It made her ill to even think of.
    The carriage halted before the unmanned gate and Merel rolled her shoulder lightly, stretching as she stepped out. She adjusted the shawl on her lap to her shoulders, and reached for her cane to help on the cobblestone. Uneven, she thought, glancing down at the dolerite stones.
    “What a trip,” she said to the driver. “Is this the way, then? I don’t… I don’t see anyone to let me in.”
    “It ain’t that sort of gate, miss. The soldiers outside told me as such. Only you can pass through. There’s wards and enchantments of all sorts, and you’re the one with the envelope.”
    “Of course,” she mumbled. Her mood was already souring thinking of the taxing journey ahead. “Well, would you mind helping with my trunk? I cannot exactly get it down myself.”
    The driver was a large man, and could pull it down like it was very easy. Poor Merel had taken nearly an hour to haul it down her stairs when she had brought it to the carriage. With a furrowed brow, she helped him lower it onto the cobblestones. There was no way that she was going to get this all the way up the tower, she thought. No way. The light from the streetlamp shone on the smooth, careworn leather of the trunk and its brass fixtures— and she could see where in her rush, she had accidentally closed one of her skirts in a corner, a little edge poking out as if it was fondly waving.
    “This is where we part.” The driver outstretched his hand and Merel shook it with some hesitance, lost in thought.
    “Thank you.” Merel smiled, strained but well meaning. “I appreciate it. I’d tip you, but I don’t have much.”
    “The Academy paid me well enough, don’t you worry.” He glanced up at the walls, the tower scraping the very ceiling of the night sky above them. “You’ve got your own worries, there, miss.”
    “I’ll manage,” she said with false confidence. “Travel well, sir. Give the headmistress my regards.” She heaved the trunk upwards with a yank, jerking it by the handle. “I’ve got it!” she said assuredly as he looked at her quizzically, but got back atop the carriage seat anyways. She grimaced and set it down, waiting for him to depart and leave her in the empty street of the gate before she embarrassed herself.
    Then came the difficult part. She lurched it back up and pulled. It was one of those days, thought Merel, where she wished she had devoted more of her time to outdoor pursuits and bodily strength, instead of being a library mouse. It was only perhaps fifty feet from where the carriage had left her, but to pull it so far took her ten minutes. “Great,” she breathed, panting. “Dawn shall break before I’m on the step. Though, then at least I won’t be doing it in the dark.”
    The gates of the castle opened at her approach, and the young woman’s eyes searched for a seal or a command, perhaps some sort of binding— but she found none. How odd, she thought; such things were usually no trouble for her to find. Little magical hinges and pivots always had something of a sheen to them, not quite visible in the waking world, as if wet with magic paint that would not dry. It took most people great training to see, but was typically, for Merel, not so hard. But there was nothing here. She scowled. She did not like to feel fooled or deceived. Sulking as she finally got everything past the gate, Merel sat down on her trunk for a breather. She was barely through the gate and already exhausted.