Three: Jennail Is Called Mongrel and Mouse

September 18, 1983- Ethelden Palace; Amhurst, Veronaville



Professor Brylowe glided through the classroom, her heels making a slow but steady clack clack clack on the hardwood floor.

"Focus your energy not on the underside of the pitcher nor the surface of the table but between the pitcher and the table. The challenge is in understanding where the pitcher ends and the table begins."

Jennail picked up her pitcher, testing it for weight. She had a feeling that the amount of force used to lift the object with her hands was entirely different from the force needed to lift it with her mind but this was just a feeling. She had barely passed object manipulation in her previous year and could not have claimed to know what she was doing. Jennail took a deep breath, closed her eyes and concentrated.



Around her, she could hear the scraping of tile on wood as the other girls managed to levitate their pitchers. Jennail tried to ignore the low pulse of adrenaline that told her she was falling behind and that she would never be able to catch up. She imagined the space between the pitcher and the table. But then, was she meant to imagine it or was there some other trick? How could she know something that she couldn't see or hear or smell or taste or touch without imagining it?

Jennail peeked through her squinted lids to see if the pitcher had budged. It hadn't. Conversely, the pitcher that had been stationed across from it was now dangling so high that Jennail could hear it gently tapping the ceiling.



The student facing Jennail, Lakshmi Summerdream-Satti was smirking at her, the poisonous green of her eyes glowing like the moon.

"You'll break the table, you keep doing that tvoashi," she whispered in English. Jennail frowned less at the racial slur (the other girls called her 'tvoashi' or 'mongrel' so often that it was starting to take on the resonance a nickname) and more at the implication that she was going about the exercise incorrectly. It was difficult for her to know whether Lakshmi was merely teasing or whether she really was headed towards collapsing the table. Her motionless pitcher did seem indicative of the fact that she was doing something wrong. Jennail frowned at the hollow mass of cement and glass. The space between the pitcher and the table. Was there space between the pitcher and the table?



Jennail had not heard Professor Brylowe approaching her stool. She had only been alerted to her instructor's presence when her delicate brown hands darted out to Jennail's chest, compressing what Jennail could only assume was her lungs.

"Your breath is here. Here, child! What is the matter with you?" Professor Brylowe concluded her scolding by hitting Jennail soundly on the back of the head. Lakshmi bit her lip to control her giggling fit.

"I’m sorry, I—"

"Stay focused, girl! I swear, it’s as worthless to educate a partling as it is to teach a mouse to pull a freight train." Jennail gawked at the professor for an instant, during which she received another sharp blow to the head. "Shoulders back, face forward before you kill yourself! If there’s a God above, you will learn this by the end of the day!" Jennail pinched the bridge of her nose and screwed her eyes shut, slightly reeling from the assault.

"I’m sorry! I just--"

"Don’t be sorry, be accurate!" And with that, Professor Brylowe passed her by. Jennail readjusted her pitcher in the name of getting sensory input from the object but knew full well that she had given up on the task at hand. What did her breathing have to do with anything? She was lost. Lakshmi grinned at her and she had the most peculiar feeling that the redhead could hear her inner monologue.



"I am not without sympathy for your plight, Miss Tricou," Professor Brylowe began as she paced the room. "On the contrary, I understand your inabilities very well. While your people were inventing the pointed stick, our people were discovering the laws of physics. While your people were still rolling around in their own filth, our people were building Shintow Gate. Your race is an evolutionary throw-back, worthy of-- Mind your pitcher, Miss Ghent! Worthy of scientific inquiry. Partlings are not fit for study but fit to be studied. Are you human or are you fae, Miss Tricou?" By this time, the professor had come full circle and was standing just above Jennail, who shrank away as best she could without being too obvious. She did not know how the professor wanted her to respond. When she spoke, it was out of a certain proprietary pride for what she was.



"I’m both," Jennail murmured. With that, the professor picked up Jennail's end of the table and slammed it down, causing the entire room to jump and nearly toppling Jennail's otherwise stationary pitcher. Professor Brylowe pressed her lips into a thin, pallid line.

"Prove me wrong," she demanded. Jennail folded her arms on the table, catching her professor's eye.

"Yes, Professor Brylowe,"she said.

"And get yourself a good tutor. Your performance really is appalling at this stage of your education."

"Yes, Professor."



Jennail raked her fingers through her ponytail, resting her forehead on the pitcher. She was definitely missing something and it was more than cognitive. She had no magic to speak of. She was there in that classroom because once upon a time ago, her surname meant something amongst faes. Her presence was nothing more than a tribute to the dried-out line of minor nobility that formed her ancestry. Jennail picked at a glass tile with her fingernail. The only way that she knew how to get this pitcher airborne was to throw it-- And the prospect of that made her smile to herself.

The bell rang and the girls hastened to put away their pitchers before heading out the door. Jennail was nearly last to leave. Maya stood outside the door with one foot propped against the brick wall. She linked arms with Jennail as they started down the hall.



"How was class?" Maya asked, reading Jennail's expression. She could not see her own face but Jennail supposed that she probably looked upset or at the very least, tired.

"It's a nightmare. I have no idea what I'm doing in there." Jennail ran her free hand along the banister absently. Maya matched her pace, step for step and leaned her head towards her friend.

"It's only the start of the new term. You'll soon sort it out."

"I don't know that I can."



Jennail allowed Maya to proceed ahead of her down the staircase to keep her from seeing her dismay at thoughts about what her energy and her genetics barred her from doing.

"Of course you can. You're the smartest, most capable person I know," Maya said. Jennail gently squeezed her shoulder in gratitude but kept silent. When they reached the first floor, Maya stepped in front of her and smiled. They had been close long enough that Jennail could read even Maya's smallest gestures with breathtaking precision. Jennail's frown deepened, knowing what Maya was on the verge of suggesting.



"No," Jennail said flatly. Maya placed her hands on Jennail's shoulders, continuing to smile pleasantly.

"I don't know what you find to be so objectionable about him but don't let your pride stand in the way of progress."

"He's a slimeball, Maya! You have no idea." Maya hid an uncontrollable snort behind her hand.

"Even so. I think he'd help you."

"Imagine me asking the Sheut how to make a pitcher float. It's ridiculous, Maya. It would be like asking Raphael to help me understand the color wheel. No."

"He'd totally do it though."

"It isn't a question of what he would do. It's the principle of the thing."

Maya sighed and shook her head. She leaned forward and kissed Jennail on the cheek.

"You're impossible, you know that?" Maya pushed a lock of Jennail's hair behind her ear. Jennail shook her head.

"No. I think that my wishes are very reasonable. All I ask is to find a tutor who doesn't look at me like he wants to eat me alive." Maya snickered at Jennail's observation while Jennail herself hastened to shove her hands in her pockets, remembering the sensation of his mouth.