Page 96 of Liminal

Dread pools as Lambert looks over his shoulder at Poppy. A second later, an encyclopaedia topples from the shelf above her and smacks into her head.

Shit.

Now I have a glaring girl and a golden god shooting suspicious looks my way.

“Take your seats. Take your seats!” Hopkinson practically skips to the front, a disturbing sight given his age and stature. “The Librarian has agreed to take this lecture! I cannot wait to hear what she has to tell us about the six houses.”

I would rather die again, and that isnotan exaggeration. Unfortunately, the professor is already stepping aside, gesturing to the spot beside the projector as he beams at me.

“No fair,” Lambert complains. “Kyrith is my tutor.”

“Where’s Northcliff?” Galileo ignores the possessiveness in the Winthrop heir’s tone as he searches the room for an absent mop of black hair. “This lecture is one he’d actually find useful.”

I’d also like to know the answer to that question, but as I search the gathered students on my reluctant journey to the front, I can find no trace of him.

He’s not returned since he watched me die with the others, and that’s disconcerting enough that it takes me longer than it probably should to figure out where to start.

“Where are you on studying them?” I ask, not really expecting much.

Hopkinson tries to vary his lectures, giving them one about arcanist culture on Mondays, and then the other two on either a famous magical discovery or arcanist.

“We haven’t covered any of the subject yet.” The magister is still bouncing on his toes, possibly twice as eager as the rest of the students put together.

At least I have one interested party.

Just as I open my mouth, North shoves into the room, his bag hanging from an arm that’s wrapped in a bright blue cast and murder in his eyes.

What happened to him?

“Sorry,” he grunts under his breath, not even looking at the projector until Lambert elbows him.

“Right.” I turn away before those yellow eyes can put me off.

“The six families were all that remained of arcanist society after the purges,” I begin, pacing the space at the front of the room absently. “As you all know, in early history, there was a period of intense witch hunts that roughly corresponds with our arrival in this realm?—”

“Arrival? Are we aliens?” someone near the back asks.

Hopkinson shushes the man. “There are several reputable theories that arcanists are relative newcomers to this world,” I continue. “The lack of magical evidence from before the purges has been hypothesised to be so complete because our arrival caused the purges. Having studied the literature, I concur with their hypothesis, but it’s far from proven.”

I don’t add that the occasional being from another realm stumbling into the Arcanaeum solidified the idea for me.

“While it’s theorised that many arcanists survived the hunts by giving up magic and integrating fully—giving rise to the number of liminals in the general population—the six families preserved their history and their way of life. They were Carlton, Ó Rinn, McKinley, Winthrop, Talcott, and Ackland, and they settled in what was then known as Albion, a far corner away from the empire that had persecuted them.”

Hopkinson taps the projector, and a map slips into place easily.

“The families remained insular, and inbreeding became a problem. So much so, that in the early fifteenth century, despite the danger of the Catholic witch hunts, the families began hunting for liminals amongst the population. They used the university as a place to educate them. Ironically, the worst period of witch hunts in European history is actually the greatest period of arcanist expansion. The influx of new blood caused worries that arcanists would become less powerful, but the opposite happened.”

Hopkinson gives me a keep going motion, and I glance back at the slide.

“McKinley was the most insular of the families, choosing to settle in Orkney and gaining a reputation for specialising in nullification, so there are relatively few records of their earlier years. The other families still separated for safety, but they were more open and tended to intermarry. Most of them took different approaches to security. Ó Rinn focused on hoarding knowledge. Carlton forged as many alliances as possible. Ackland focused on destruction magic…”

I look over at their table as I say it, noting how North’s already gloomy expression turns sour.

“There were rivalries, of course,” Hopkinson interjects. “Can anyone name them?”

“Talcotts and Ó Rinns,” a dark-haired man at the back says, shooting a glance at Galileo.

“Talcotts don’t like anyone,” a woman at the front mutters.