SID SPRINGER
{ tenebarum // early morning }
There were so many ways to describe Artistide, Sid realized. Her mentor was oddly alluring in a way that made Sid uncomfortable. Sure, she was nineteen, but was it really okay to think of her mentor like that. He was young, but the carried himself with the same seasoned maturity she’d seen in far older individuals. There was something magnetic about Artistide. It was a pull to him, enticing Sid.
Come closer.
Look carefully.
The sensation of walking drifted through the fog of her thoughts, a spear of sunlight through dense morning mist. She blinked, scrambling to piece together whatever attempt at conversation poor Artistide had made during her mental absence.
Alluring.
“Sorry? Oh right! I grew up in rural Georgia. I used to pick peaches in the summer.” And sometimes I would eat them in the shade. She didn’t add the last part. The thought alone was enough to fire an arrow of homesickness through her chest, lancing the cavity within her ribs. Her skin used to blister so easily beneath the late July sun. The sparse shade provided by the peach trees proved useless against summer’s wrath. Only layers of sunscreen and a wide-brimmed hat served as faithful sword and shield against those blistering days when the sun crawled to its peak and hunched there, the orchard’s fat overseer. Celesse never burned. The sun was kind to her sister, everyone was. It ripened her apple-golden, never daring to steal the elasticity or delicate sheen from her skin.
Following him step for step, Sid’s thoughts tumbled through a list of her own questions for him. It didn’t seem fair to let him carry the conversation alone. The list could have—in Sid’s humble opinion—easily spanned the pages of a novel. However, before she could settle on a single one, Artistide was leading her through a shed. A toolshed, more specifically. A great variety of tools and equipment spanned the walls and shelves. Great care was taken to keep these items from looking cluttered and cramped. Everything was neatly tucked into its own niche. Precise. Orderly. Just like the rest of the school, but lacking in the same gothic flair that made Caligo unique.
But it was the second door that made Sid stop, breathless.
A garden sprawled at her feet, bursting with green life. Vines and broad leaves overflowed from beds of dark soil, creeping into the aisles that separated one row of plant life from another. The air was wet, warm causing mist to slither up the crystalline glass walls. Lost in a sense of awestruck wonder and budding homesickness, Sid took a step forward. And then another. And another. Carefully, her fingertips trailed over the leaves and flowers.
She stooped down to study a poppy. Fat ruby petals weighted its head, but the flower never drooped. Stranger, poppies usually bloomed in late spring. Then again, the greenhouse was well taken care of. No doubt its dutiful gardener could make even the most reluctant of foliage bloom out of season. The sight of poppy carried with it a fresh wave of memories. Sid used to know all the meanings of the Victorian language of flowers. Most of them signified some form of love. Unfading love. True love. Fraternal love. Sincere love. Every shape and size that the feeling could take, there was a flower for it. Poppies, however, held a very different meaning. Eternal sleep. Oblivion. Dreams.
“It’s wonderful,” Sid rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her skirt. Great, within the short span of minutes she’d managed to collect even more stains and smudges. Thankfully, the dark fabric concealed the worst of it. Mostly.
“Okay, you’ve asked me a question, now I get to ask you one,” she beamed, striding over to study before Artistide as she had done the poppy. Her eyes flickered over his face, moving to his hair and then back to his glasses. “How old are you?” No matter how hard she tried, Sid couldn’t put a number to him. Late twenties, early thirties seemed to suit him. And then she would look closer, look carefully and even mid-thirties felt too young for him.
It was a bizarre feeling. Like the river of time bent its course to move around him.
But that was stupid.
Vulpine, she realized. The sharp features and bright crimson hair gave Artistide a distinctly fox-like feel. It brought to mind an old poem Celesse used to tell her. The stanzas were lost in her memory, stuffed away with her knowledge of flower languages and the best places hiding places for hide-and-seek. Only two lines managed to escape the cobwebbed traces of old memories:
As you’re pretty, so be wise;
Wolves may lurk in every guise.
But this was no wolf. He wasn’t a fox either. Intimidating, yes. But he was also to be Sid’s mentor. Liking Artistide to cunning predators wasn’t a fair judgment. In fact, no judgement was a fair one. Not until she had a chance to get to know him. Really know him. And that would take time. Time and patience, a good deal of it. Sid was ready. She wanted to get to know Artistide and Caligo University better.