Told you you'd get to read it ;)
The sheets rustle. I hardly hear it.
I was studying in the afternoon after class, when I found notes. Handwritten notes in the Advanced Life Sciences and Theories book Galinda brought me from the library. It wasn't the one I'd asked for but as it turns out, it's so much better. It's ancient. It doesn't answer any of my questions but raises so many new ones, I'm out of parchment. I'm now using Galinda's since she never needs much.
I'm almost at the bottom of the backside of my last page, when I stumble upon another of those notes. Most of it is unreadable since it was struck through. Everything else has been annotated at the side or even transparently been connected with arrows and lines but now it's squeezed in between the text, then crossed out. Thoroughly. The word Pfenix is the only thing I can decipher – yet. I don't care if it takes all night, heck, all weekend, I will—
I startle when hands land on my shoulders. Jumping, my knees hit the desk, sending a few sheets flying.
"Galinda!" I gasp breathlessly. I don't care if others are sleeping – I don't even know what time it is, not that it matters. My heart is pounding, slowing when I let out a sigh. I didn't even notice her getting up.
"It's four in the morning, Elphie," she croaks, hoarse from sleep. I don't glance to the side, but I do register the way the candle on my desk is the only source of light. "Did you even go to bed? At all?" Galinda grumbles. So I grumble back. She tightens her fingers on my shoulders, then again, as if massaging them would get the tension to leave. Or get me to bed.
It doesn't – o wonder – nothing will. Not after what I've already found. Whoever this Doctor Mondus is, he knew things no one else has thought of – at least things no one's been allowed to publish.
"You're terrible, Elphie," Galinda, mumbles, rubbing her eyes. I don't watch her saunter away, but I do register her moving about this time. She's putting on her shoes. My mind hasn't even processed what that could mean, nor formed a question, because I have to find back that passage in my earlier notes; the ones I took in Doctor Dillamond's class. He always says so much more than there is to read about in the schoolbooks. Perhaps if I compare the chapter with his statements, I might find something to help me guess what this secret, nearly covered-up message means.
The door falls shut, making me return to the present. I look up for the first time in hours. It makes my neck ache, so I only turn carefully, my vertebrae popping nonetheless. Galinda is gone – through the entrance door, not that of the bathroom. I frown at the empty hook on the door. She wouldn't be seen wearing my coat, would she? She wouldn't put it on, full stop.
I don't take the time to look around and find it elsewhere. What I do however is circle my shoulders and sit up. My spine pops even more than my neck. Everything feels sore. Even my eyelids become heavy all at once. I want to curse Galinda for reminding me that my body needs a break but I'm too tired to do so. The same goes for the break – I'm to tired to get up and to bed, yet I'm beginning to fear I won't be able to stay awake to uncover this tonight.
Which class is Doctor Dillamond's tomorrow? I might be able to ask him if the next class isn't right after. Do we have to change buildings? I can't exactly ask anyone to pay attention for me, because no one does so properly. And if I explain this to Doctor Dillamond, we'll be busy discussing it for hours – I'll have to wait for Thursday to tell him; I don't think I can.
I blink to focus my vision when something moves into my field of view. A cup. A most finely crafted porcelain cup with a golden rim. Steam rises from the blackest of coffees, the scent alone reviving my spirits. I gather up a foot onto my chair to be more comfortable, then take the coffee. I didn't even notice her coming back.
"Terrible," Galinda mutters to herself, though softly. She kicks off her shoes, then goes to her own desk. I take a sip of coffee, glancing over my shoulder to see her find a white handbag among a dozen others. My coat is back at the door, I notice.
Rustling and crinkling them uncaringly, Galinda produces a handful of previously folded, stuffed-away sheets of parchment. She must know that I already used her stock inside her desk and in the bags she usually takes to class. She never writes on them anyway, but she is always prepared – I'll give credit where credit is due.
Never even glancing at the mess I made on my desk, she drops the sheets. Then she takes a few of her own sparce notes from class, turns them over, squints – her eyes are crusted with sleep, no matter her rubbing them – and then leaves them on my desk as well. She never writes down much, and she spaces her lines generously; she knows I'll be able to squish my own scribbling in between.
The bed squeaks when she flops down on it. I take a big gulp of coffee as I observe, emptying the cup. It's one of those tiny, fancy ones. Again, I didn't see nor hear her take it from the set, and I'm almost surprised she didn't take the saucer with her, as is proper, to go steal coffee from the canteen. Too tired, judging by the way she merely deflates with a long sigh, eyes shut, and curls up without tucking herself in. Might be because it's my bed she fell into, and my blanket that's thin enough to pass as a fitted sheet.
I tilt back my head for even the last drop to leave the cup. Even half-asleep, Galinda knows how to make coffee the way I like it – I don't even know myself; I hardly take the time and effort to treat myself, and when I do, it doesn't turn out this good. I lick my lips, enjoying the way the hot liquid runs down my throat.
Her flank rises and falls steadily. I'm back to writing, the parchment flattened under my elbow while my eyes weave their way through my notes in the hopes of finding something, mind sharpened anew. She isn't even wearing socks; those tiny pale feet must be cold with neither shoes nor a blanket. I frown to stay focused. A Pfenix; a bird – no, Bird, but it can't be that simple. It must be a metaphor – fire, ashes, rebirth, a cycle maybe.
I lean back, closing my eyes. I have to think this through; I can't just skim everything for a clue. Letting the quill go, I cover ma face in my hand. A Pfenix. Or perhaps I misread. It could be phlox for all I know. Phenakite. No, that's too long. If only it wasn't struck out.
I peer through my fingers. Is she actually asleep, cold and in that tiny ball of herself (and the ruffles of her nightgown)? Does she realise she's on my bed?
With a long inhale, I heave myself out of my chair. It hurts even more than straightening my back. My mind doesn't actively give the orders, but my feet move on their own, over to Galinda's bed. So much for that awakened focus of mine. She gives a soft hum in her sleep when I drape her ridiculous pink comforter over her. Her fists furl around the tip of it, snuggling it to her face. It and the hem of my dress, seeing as I'm standing right next to the bed.
I purse my lips. A glance at my chair doesn't spark too much joy though, rather an antecedent reluctance in my tailbone and most any other part of my body that still aches from being cramped under the desk. My eyes wander down to Galinda again.
She doesn't wake when the mattress sinks under my weight next to her head, at least I don't think she does.
"Galinda," I say but she doesn't reply. I narrow my eyes. "Galinda," I repeat. Still nothing. I can't quite believe her head sleep-walked itself onto my lap where I sit at the foot of my bed, hunched over my desk more comfortably now. I let her be though, mostly because I half expect her to struggle free for air from the comforter covering my legs. She doesn't, her breathing even and deep.
I wait until I'm sure she isn't pretending to be asleep but truly nodded off again. I shift slightly, then wait again. When she doesn't give the slightest of hints of being awake, I slip my unoccupied hand under the sheets. Her hair is like silk, even smoother, flowing between my fingers in a pleasant contrast to the scratching of the quill. I fill out the swirls of her handwriting whenever I have to think before taking notes, and when I finally do just that, my other hand occupies itself with golden curls.
I might not find that answer tonight – or anytime soon – but for some reason, I don't mind having to look for it all week until getting a chance to present it to Doctor Dillamond. Right now, just this way, I wouldn't even mind another sleepless night or two.