The Ballpoint Pen and the Pitiful Blonde Girl (2)
Most of what I knew about magic, I had learned from Muriel.
Before the world took to calling her the Witch, she had borne the title of the Sage — which made her, in my estimation, a teacher without equal. There was simply no one to compare her to.
"Muriel, I think this spellbook is wrong about something."
There had been a time, while reading a book in her study, when I came across a passage that contradicted what she had taught me, and I said exactly that.
"Which part?"
Muriel pulled a chair over until our shoulders nearly touched and looked at the section I was pointing to with my finger. Then, patting my head, she told me this:
"I once taught you that magic reflects a person's life, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"Every person carries different things within them. Which means the principles behind their magic — and its effects — can differ as well. Even if a fire that burned cold existed, there would be nothing strange about it."
There is no single right answer in magic.
Which means that even her own words could, on occasion, turn out to be wrong.
Muriel had imparted that lesson to me once, and so I concluded that even a professor whose experience paled beside hers might still offer me something new to learn.
So I listened to the lecture with everything I had.
It would only be for a short while, but I meant to squeeze whatever wisdom I could out of it.
Armed with my newly made ballpoint pen, I took notes with the same diligence I'd shown back in my university days.
This is great!
So this was what an academy was — a bastion of learning.
The lecture content itself was little more than a watered-down version of what Muriel had once taught me, but even a watered-down version can yield its own insights.
When I got home, I'd review everything and chew it over a few times.
There was just one thing that nagged at me, though.
Why is everyone sitting there so quietly, just listening?
The pitiful blonde girl beside me seemed to be hesitating even when she had something she wanted to ask, and the other students listened to the lecture without any apparent intention of participating.
Wasn't learning supposed to be a back-and-forth? Questions asked and answered?
That way, you could nail down the parts you didn't understand before moving on, and the professor could confirm whether the students had actually grasped the material.
They must all just be introverts.
Well, fair enough, I suppose.
I could understand the reluctance — ask a question, and it feels like baring your weaknesses to everyone, like painting a target that says ignorant on your back.
Which meant—
I guess I'll have to do it for them.
I thrust my hand into the air.
The bespectacled professor conducting the lecture spotted me.
"Hmm? The student seated there. A question?"
"Yes, sir."
The professor's face lit up.
Naturally it did.
Not once, in all my time here, had I met a professor who disliked being asked questions.
When a student steps forward eagerly, professors bend over backwards to teach them one more thing. Why waste the opportunity sitting there with your mouth shut?
Beaming, the professor asked, "And what are you curious about?"
"In the mana circulation method you just explained — if a limb were severed, would the technique still work as before? And if not, how would one prevent mana from leaking out of the wound?"
"Ohh, excellent. Yes — when the body suffers a severing, the circulation method certainly differs from when everything is intact."
It was like watching someone whose hobby had never found a kindred soul finally discover a friend who shared it, pouring out everything that had been pent up inside. Explanation after explanation came spilling from the professor's mouth.
Every so often he'd check whether I was actually following along, and each time I answered, he grew more animated — eventually scrawling diagrams across the board in his excitement.
And so the professor's lecture and my question hour flowed on in perfect harmony. Alas, lecture hours are finite.
The professor glanced at the clock and clicked his tongue in disappointment.
"Goodness, look at the time already. I'll continue the rest in the next lecture."
Damn.
Time well spent, though.
Still, if only I could have heard the rest of that explanation.
I was gathering up my parchment, now crammed full of notes, and preparing to leave with that regret in tow when it happened.
Swish.
The pitiful blonde girl, silent until now, raised her hand.
The professor, lecture materials tucked under his arm and ready to depart, paused to see if she had a question.
And the pitiful blonde girl answered:
"Professor, there was an assignment due today."
Ahhh—
Groans erupted from every corner of the room.
Presumably from the students who hadn't finished their assignments.
Only then did the professor seem to remember, turning back toward the podium with a start.
"Ah, I nearly forgot. Right — the assignments from last week. Set them up here on your way out."
"Ah, Professor — take this one, please."
After collecting the assignments, I stopped the professor on his way out and held out a single ballpoint pen.
He looked at it and smiled warmly.
"Heh, you really didn't have to."
Even as he said it, he was already sliding the pen into his breast pocket — his words and actions failing to agree in the most charming way.
"I don't believe I've seen your face before, student. What's your name?"
"Owen."
"Hmm. I'll remember that."
And with that, the professor left the lecture hall.
"What's her problem? Keep butting in like she's got no sense at all."
The moment the professor walked out with the assignments, the voices started from somewhere behind me.
I had stayed behind hoping to talk to the pitiful blonde girl, so I got a front-row view of several students hurling abuse at her.
"It's because she's broke. Needs that scholarship money, doesn't she? Getting rid of the competition early, while there are still kids who haven't done the assignment. Clever girl."
"No money, no dignity, apparently."
They weren't even bothering to lower their voices — practically begging her to overhear.
If those words had been aimed at me, I wouldn't have held back. I'd have charged straight at them.
But the pitiful blonde girl offered no rebuttal whatsoever. She simply gathered her things in silence and turned to leave.
And then—
"Ah."
Something seemed to occur to her; she stopped mid-step and turned around.
"Y-y-you scared me…!"
When the blonde girl whipped around and found me practically glued to her back, she startled like a cat, fur bristling.
Her next actions were feline as well. Like a wary cat, she kept her body pulled back while cautiously extending one arm, then opened her hand.
Resting on her small, delicate palm was the ballpoint pen I'd handed her earlier.
"I came to give this back. It wrote really well…"
"So you tried it, then? Could I hear your review?"
"Huh? Uh?"
The blonde girl darted her eyes around nervously.
It clearly bothered her that the students who treated her like a thorn in their side were still lingering in the lecture hall.
Only after they'd gathered their belongings and filed out did she open her mouth.
"Normally, when I take notes, the paper tears if I'm not careful, so I have to write super gently. It was nice not having to worry about that. The ink doesn't smudge either, and it doesn't blob up."
"Hm. You know your stuff."
To recite the ballpoint pen's advantages point by point after only a brief trial — impressive.
"Anyway, keep it. It's a gift."
When I folded her fingers back around the pen, the blonde girl went flustered.
"Have you eaten? Want to go grab food together?"
"Huh? Huh?"
"Don't worry about money. My treat. In exchange, you can show me around the academy."
"No, we literally just met… we don't even know each other's names…?"
The blonde girl's guard shot up.
For some reason, she eyed me with deep suspicion while inching backward, step by careful step.
Seemed I'd leaned on my face a little too hard. A handsome face can only carry you so far.
"My name's Owen. Yours?"
"Lily. Lily Elphin."
The moment I took a step toward her, Lily thrust out her palm like a barricade, silently forbidding me to come closer.
"Did someone put you up to this? Did somebody tell you to eat with me?"
Ah. It seemed a small misunderstanding had taken root.
The way she'd stood frozen in front of my door that morning. The way she'd kept glancing at the other students during the lecture.
Chronic bullying had worn her down to a nub, shall we say.
Just how thoroughly had people deceived this girl that she took every act of kindness toward her as proof of some hidden scheme?
"Nobody put me up to anything. For the record, today's my first day at the academy."
"…There's nothing good about getting close to me. I'm being ostracized."
"I see. Well then — could you show me the cafeteria first?"
"Did you hear what I just said?"
Lily blinked at me, incredulous.
"I heard you. 'You'll end up ostracized too.'"
She could say whatever she liked, but I was confident she'd eventually lose to my stubbornness.
From what I could see, she was the type to feel guilty whenever her presence caused others harm — which was precisely why she had no close friends.
One might object: what if she simply preferred being alone? But I'd bet against that.
Hadn't we just established that magic reflects a mage's life?
Magic that awakens later in life fills in the gaps — the missing pieces, the needed things — in a person's existence. Hadn't Muriel said as much?
So let's review, shall we?
What was Lily's magic, as I'd witnessed it in that alleyway?
I couldn't be certain, but my guess was: magic that could breathe souls into dolls.
Magic that let a doll — nothing more than a wad of stuffing — run and play, and greet people with joy.
The poverty that made keeping a pet impossible.
The loneliness of living in a strange land with no family and no friends.
The ache of having no one to confide in about the bullying at the academy.
I'd wager it was all of that, fused together, that birthed her magic.
At least, that was my hypothesis.
Which is to say—
Deep down, Lily Elphin must be longing for a friend she could pour her heart out to.
"Then let's get along, fellow outcast."
Which also meant: if I just pushed hard enough, Lily Elphin wouldn't be able to push me away.
Had my prediction hit the mark?
Lily hesitated, then answered.
"…Don't blame me later."
"Won't."
"Then… come on, I guess…"
And Lily took the lead.
Back in his office after the lecture, the professor fiddled with the ballpoint pen a student had given him — one he'd never met before — unable to suppress his grin.
These days' students showed so little enthusiasm in lectures that it had disheartened him. And now, at long last, a student unlike the rest had appeared — one who actually engaged.
He stayed focused through the entire lecture, and for every question he asked, he stepped up and answered in turn. For the first time in ages, lecturing had been genuinely enjoyable.
It felt like the passion for teaching from his youth — worn away by the grind of reality and long forgotten — was blossoming anew.
"Heh heh. I wonder if that young man might consider graduate school."
Perhaps he was simply too worked up.
While preparing for his next lecture, he knocked over a water glass with his elbow without even noticing.
"Oh no!"
Of all things — the desk was covered with materials for tomorrow's lecture.
The professor scrambled to salvage the papers, but the ink had already soaked through, the pages drenched.
"…This is a disaster. All that preparation, ruined…"
Just as it seemed the documents he'd worked so hard on were destined for the bin—
"Hm? What's this?"
He finally saw it.
Even on the soaked paper, one line of ink had not blurred. It held its form, crisp and intact, beneath the water.
The fountain pens of this era relied on capillary action, which meant they could only use water-based ink.
A ballpoint pen, however, was different.
Because it used a metal ball bearing — the ball rolling to pick up ink as it wrote — a ballpoint pen could carry oil-based ink instead of water-based.
And Owen had filled this particular pen with exactly that.
Half disbelieving, the professor drew a long, unbroken line across a dry sheet with the pen.
Then he gently poured a splash of water over it from his glass.
The ink still refused to bleed — its form perfectly preserved.
The professor smacked his forehead, overcome with awe.
"Good heavens! This pen doesn't run in water!"
In an age where ink smudging from water and sweat was simply a fact of life, a pen had appeared that could be soaked and yet not smear — thanks to its oil-based ink.
For the professor to marvel at it was only natural.