The first thing she does after the funeral is cut her hair. There is supreme satisfaction in the sharp slice of the scissor and the thick mass falling to the floor. Waver can feel her head snap upwards as the weight is lifted and it incites an odd euphoria. Seventeen years of her life and her mother had braided long hair every morning. Waver had appreciated it for she did not like taking the time to care for her appearance and braids had made her hair easy. Later it had been the only mother-daughter bonding they could do with their diametrically opposed personalities; Waver had known her mother could braid in seconds, but she noticed the process became longer as time went on. She does not begrudge her mother grasping at these last vestiges of familial bonds, even as they both felt themselves slipping apart. She is not a cruel daughter. In the last days, when her mother had lain in hospital, Waver would sit by the bedside, book in hand for hours, while middle-aged fingers stroked and curled ends of her hair. Now it serves no more purpose. It falls along with shackles of her simple parentage. She is free.

"Ah, the Lady Velvet doth approach! You look especially lovely!" the man at the secondhand shop winks at her. He is tall and broad shouldered, his body tapering down to toned legs. Although his height adds to the illusion of thinness the muscles under his clothes are unmistakable. Waver frowns at him and he laughs.

"I'm not trying to look lovely, Bartholomew. This is for practicality."

"You hear that buddy," Bartholomew says, patting a young puppy at his feet, "you can't bite and pull at her hair now. I'll miss the squawking. Although I hope I shall still be able to make you scream by other means-"

"What is wrong with you!" she hisses, "And in public? People could hear!"

"Okay, okay, business." he puts his hands up in mock surrender, "What's new for me today?"

"I still don't see why you can't just send someone to pick all of this up instead of forcing me to carry it all bit by bit to this stupid shop." She places the box on the counter and proceeds to unpack a set of cutlery and plates onto the counter for Bartholomew's appraisal.

"That would be a terrible waste of our resources. I need the men here for packing and shipping you know that. You just want some nice strong lads in your house for you to watch don't you? I know you young girls. Am I not enough for you?"

"As if I had any interest in seducing these idiots."

"I am relieved." He leans forward and pecks her on the forehead.

"Get off me you brute," she swipes playfully at his retreating head and he catches her hand and plants kisses on that too. She finds herself blushing, "But, honestly," she stammers through his ministrations, "I'm going to need someone to pick up the major furniture soon."

He drops her hand abruptly as he turns to make a mark on a book behind him. "When do you start?" he asks without facing her.

"First week of September."

"All right. 12th of August, we'll come at 11." His face is solemn as he hands her a receipt, which she tucks into the small pouch at her hip.

"I'll miss you when you move off to school."

"Yes, fine," she says, and he knows in the language of Waver Velvet that acknowledgement is the closest towards verbal reciprocity he can hope to receive.

"Come visit?" his voice is soft and hopeful. She sighs. Men are so fragile.

"I have to marry a mage. I won't be able waste time with old boyfriends."

"You don't have to! You're plenty smart on your own. You're gonna be a great famous mage by twenty-five. Isn't that the plan? Why this marriage business all of a sudden? The Waver Velvet I know would never let herself be defined by a man."

It is evidence of their intimacy that she does not shoot back with a reproach on his presumption to know her mind. Instead she chooses: "It's not my choice! It's how the system works. I'm only third generation, without connections I'm not going to get anywhere in mage society."

"And mage society is so goddamned important," he grumbles, not a complaint, but an agreement. "Do you ever wish you'd been born common?"

"No."

He nods. It is the answer he expected.

"I'm sorry, Bartholomew."

A sincere apology from Waver Velvet is more rare than a diamond in the gutter. An apology wraps up their history in a way a straight goodbye never could. This is the end and they both know it.

He says he thinks the dining set will fetch about a hundred pounds and promises to call her with the exact number later. She pets the dog on her way out and it whines into her hand.

At home she circles August 12th in red on her calendar and tacks the receipt up on her wall. She sits on her bed looking at the small room that will soon no longer be hers. Almost all her and her family's possessions have been sold or in the process of being sold. She plans to bring to the Clock Tower only two worn suitcases full of books and clothes, although she hasn't packed them yet. A pile sits precariously on her bedside table; she picks up the top volume and flips through it idly. It smells like the library closest to her house, where she'd spent her free hours before her age convinced her mother she was allowed farther into the city. She'd taken it without permission, but doubted it would be missed. It had been the only book on magecraft in the small library's collection; that building was a bank now. At twelve years old, she had looked it up in the catalogue and dutifully counted numbers until she'd found where it was supposed to be shelved. There had been a boy there, holding a book. Her book. That's mine, she had said, you don't need it. I'm the only mage here so I deserve to read it more than you. Wide eyes had turned to her. You're a mage? How cool! Bartholomew had adored her ever since.

What a shame.

She holds the book to her chest and climbs off the bed, to place it in the suitcase, next moving to change from her casual summer t-shirt into a more respectable blouse. The estate agent will arrive soon.

When the men come for the furniture Bartholomew is not with them. Waver knows she is in a rotten mood and can't stop from yelling at them several times, but the job gets done and she tips them well. They leave her alone in the empty house and suddenly she finds herself quivering in fright. The space is so large and she is so small. She runs to her room seeking quick solace, stomach lurching. It is as if a cork flies off a high-pressure flask. All her emotions gush out in a feral wail, the emotions hidden and hoarded since her parents' death that had been secondary to the rough transition to adulthood. She cries crouched in the hallway, but from loss of the past or for fear of the future she is unsure.

The last things she throws away are her father's cigars. He'd never smoked one; he was a cigarette man. Cigars were much too expensive, but she'd bought them for his birthday while he was ill with money she'd made from cat-sitting. He can't smoke while in hospital, she knows this, but she has him promise he will get better or else he would be to blame for her wasted money. Her father hates wasting money. He tries to laugh at her roundabout worry, but all that comes out is blood and phlegm. Of course, he couldn't keep that promise. She takes up stress smoking since their deaths, but she does not plan on keeping the habit. Smoking girls are unseemly and she needs to look her best. First impressions during the next few months will be of paramount importance. So, she puts her last cigarette carton on top of the cigars before burning them. She uses matches.

Waver wonders what her parents would think of her now. She stands outside the broad front doors of the Clock Tower, about to take her first step towards becoming a professional mage. This is not the future they wanted for her.

Use those smarts to get a real, successful job, her mother said.

I don't get it! Why'd you implant me with this crest if you don't want me to be a mage!

Because it is the people not the skills that are the problem. All those mages up in their high tower doing god knows what. I know magecraft can be useful and you already know more than I do. Use your crest and simple skills to help people who aren't already benefitting from the system. Use it to increase productivity or efficiency in whatever you choose to do, but my daughter isn't going to disappear into some elitist aristocracy just to have her stepped upon her entire life.

How do you know I can't be a respected mage? You didn't even try, Mother. You took one look at that life and let it defeat you! I'm not going to make your mistakes!

THAT'S ENOUGH WAVER, her father brought his fist down, you'll attend regular Uni, no more arguments.

Yet she knows they would also be proud of her. A third generation mage passing the entrance exams is rare. There had been no study guides, no mentor, no life long exposure to the material, but she had successfully calculated the majority of what appeared on the test and aced it. Waver Velvet plans to walk in and dazzle the mage world. Her mother would appreciate her appearance as well, especially after teenage years filled with t-shirts, single-color sweaters and dark pants. Waver knows she has to look respectable and pretty or no high-level skills will save her from scorn: the curse of her sex. Shopping for new clothes had been terrible; her small stature allowed others to unceremoniously push and pull their way around her and it took far too much time to figure out the ridiculously different numerical sizes. She'd emerged with many bruises and shopping bags she could barely carry on her own and, in her opinion, the ordeal had taken far too much time. She was too proud to ask the shop girls for help, but had no clue what was considered fashionable or attractive. Observing women on the street and in magazines provided such a dizzying variety that no surefire conclusions could be drawn from such research. She eventually settled on a new collection of subdued knee length pleated and pencil skirts that she could tuck brighter multicolored dress shirts into. She'd kept her few flats, but picked up two wedge heels hoping to draw male attention to her long legs (she had no courage to try actual heels). She hopes the overall ensemble appears sophisticated enough to appear qualified, despite her status, in the eyes of the faculty yet sexy to appeal to the desires of men, even high-ranking mage boys have basic lust. Waver Velvet plays the long game, but she does not have to like it.

It is her first class, while they are introducing themselves, that her confidence in her plan is hit. She starts out all brash self-assurance; she gives her name loudly, her wide grin not hostile, but challenging. She recites her test scores, although she was not asked to, and lays out in two sentences her plan to become a great mage. There is a long silence. She turns expectantly to the girl next to her wondering why the introductions are not continuing, but the girl is staring at her, brow furrowed.

"Excuse me, what generation are you?" she asks.

"I-I," Waver feels her cheeks flush, "I'm third generation, but what does that matter?"

"Oh" The reply is light, but completely dismissive and Waver feels as if she has been punched in the gut. The girl launches into her introduction, but Waver does not remember her name or anyone else's for the rest of the period.

Yet, the Clock Tower is everything Waver could have wished for. Most people treat her kindly. The beds are heavenly soft. The food is delicious. Best of all, the books are filled to the brim with all the knowledge Waver could ask for. The first time she walks into the library she thinks she might faint. She could live among its shelves and one night she sleeps there, just to feel the aged wood against her cheek in the morning and know this is not all a dream. At night she goes to bed with her hand clasped to her mouth to hide her smile. She cannot contain her joy and why should she, when she is the luckiest girl in the world. However, she has trouble making close friends; Waver Velvet is not adept at charm. She knows she looks unapproachable, her most common expressions being smug, indignant or nonplussed. She has practiced smiling on command in the mirror, but it looks wrong and it feels like a betrayal. Yet, in her position, she exudes an aura of contentment and ambition that is still admired and envied.

They are practicing transmutations in the courtyard. With a flash where once a block of paper had stood a spear now lies. It is perfectly straight and smooth. The tip is a sharp, brilliant emerald green. Waver Velvet is pleased with her work. She is even more pleased by the oohs and ahhs of the students circling her. Her skirt is wrinkled from kneeling and ink is stuck under her fingernails from drawing the magic circles and spending all of last night studying, but Waver does not think she has ever felt more appealing. She throws the spear in the air and catches it in faux battle stance to a round of applause; she is a shameless showman.

"Top marks, Velvet," the professor says. "Next class let's try enchanting it."

"Yes, very impressive," a sarcastic drawl crawls its way through the crowd. The students turn. The boy is a member of the extended Archibalds, his blond hair slicked back similarly to the Lord El Melloi's although he face is rounder and eyes a cutting grey, "Especially for someone of your position," he continues, "But you know, I've never heard of the Velvets before. Are you truly a real magic family? Perhaps your mother was not as faithful to your power-less father and that's the source of your-"

She punches him in the jaw and he reels back, but he is sturdy and her small fists barely hurt him. They are pulled into disciplinary committee, but there are witnesses that she was provoked so she receives no punishment. To her chagrin, neither does he.

She does not know if she is angrier at the insult to her mother's fidelity or the insinuation that her merits come from mage genetics and not her own work.

She has been dating an eighth generation mage for about a month. The week after her fight they discuss the incident. He tells her to let it go, that it is not worth picking further fights with an Archibald, and most infuriatingly, that she should know better. She does not agree. He tries to soothe her with physical affection. He holds her and tells her that no one should ever say such cruel things. She asks why he doesn't defend her honor. He kisses her and looks at her with sincerity. Look at your crest, he says, you don't have any yet.

He is right, but she still breaks up with him.

Waver is not sure whether she can stand a lifetime of this.

No one sees her out of her room during the next fortnight, except in class and when she is fetching food.

"What have you been doing all this time?" the girl in the room next to hers asks, catching her struggling to open her dormitory door with a stack of books in one arm nearly half her height.

Waver gives her a secretive smile as she throws her shoulder against the door to ease it open.

"I've started a new thesis."