1st 5 Pages September Workshop - Silva

Name: Jessica Silva
Genre: Young Adult sci-fi
Title: Untitled

As usual of retirement parties at Tousieux University, Cleo found the
hidden basement room was full of secrets hiding in cigar smoke, wine
glasses, and rolling laughter. Tipsy professors crowded around
lion-footed tables, betting on their good fortune and their hand of
cards in a game of Rojagat. She stepped inside with a welcoming smile,
familiarity tickling her skin. Gavriel gave a snort near her ear, but
he had a dimple in his cheek all the same. One that said she hadn’t
made a mistake in bringing him .

A boy too young to attend classes played the porter, and he welcomed
them with a polite bow. When he asked for an invitation, Cleo passed
him one addressed to her dearest mother who surely wouldn’t notice
another wax-sealed envelope absent from her pile of discarded mail on
the coffee table anytime soon. The boy bowed again, as formalities
required, and handled their greatcoats with considerable care.

“This place hasn’t changed,” Gavriel said, offering his arm to her as
his gaze drifted past the bar and toward the back of the dark room
where the real games of Rojagat were waiting for them. “Not at all.”

She set her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Aren’t you glad it
didn’t?” she asked and didn’t miss his answering smirk. As they moved
under the amber glow of the chandeliers, she imagined her father and
his rasp of a voice joking his way through the crowd, dimples in his
cheeks and slicked-back blond hair perfectly in place. Only this time,
she needed no introduction.

Every professor here knew her as the young Clemens, daughter of the
late Professor Clemens. They greeted her with bows. Such a pleasure to
meet her, they said. Some of them also knew her as the messenger for
the Vice-Premier’s secret society. They greeted her with hugs and
twinkling eyes. Steal a few sips of wine, they said. She and Gavriel
returned every bow, every hug, and every smile with practiced
elegance.

They slipped from one professor to the next, from one table to
another, until they reached a second room in the back. The smoke-thick
air buzzed with the thrill of gambling. A dull murmur of lies and
taunts replaced the laughter and cheer. Professors lounged in tufted
leather armchairs instead of wooden chairs. One quick sweep of the
room, and Cleo caught sight of Professor Anka Marity’s gold
ringed-fingers waving her over. Just as expected.

“Come join me, young Clemens.” The woman left no opportunity to
refuse, but even if she had, Cleo would’ve headed to her table all the
same. This was Professor Marity’s retirement party, after all, and
Cleo wasn’t here for the Rojagat. Marity had been her father’s mentor
when he’d earned his doctorate. He’d have wanted Cleo to say goodbye
to her. Even more, he’d have wanted Cleo to steal a win from her.

As they neared the table, Gavriel gave a soft chuckle. “Look at the
fortune in the middle of the table,” he whispered into her curls. “You
spoil me.”

“Consider it your escort fee,” she answered under her breath.

“You know I’d never charge you for my services.”

“Then I suppose it’s a friendship bonus.” Together, they dipped into a
quick bow in front of the table. “Good evening,” she greeted. The
professors at the table acknowledged her with gracious nods and gentle
smiles. They lounged with gin, rum, or whiskey glistening in heavy
lowball glasses next to their black-and-gold cards. The professors all
wore the same embroidered cassock. Cleo’s father’s was still hanging
in the closet. “Congratulations on your retirement, Professor Marity.”

“Sit, sit,” Professor Marity said. She had an impressive stack of
reals in front of her. The pot easily had more than double that. “Play
with us. Both of you. Yes, you—you’re that scrawny thing who used to
follow the older Clemens around like a second son, right?” She flicked
her hand, and space at her table cleared for them.

Only Marity would refer to Cleo’s father as the older Clemens.

“That would be me.” Gavriel flashed the professor a charming grin, the
kind he used on the kitchen ladies when he wanted an extra slice of
apple strudel, and bowed again. She expected no less of her best
friend. He always had been good at lying. Too good, perhaps. Cleo took
that moment to sit, and he followed in form. “I apologize for not
introducing myself earlier. My name is Gavriel Eng. It’s a pleasure to
meet you.”

“I’m sure you don’t need us to play,” Cleo said, maybe a little
quickly. They just needed to seem innocent and nervous and hesitant
enough to be overlooked. The nerves, though, weren’t far from the
truth. “We don’t want to interrupt. We can just—”

“None of your stupid formalities.” Marity scowled from across the
table. She had the same warm bronze skin as Cleo’s grandmother, but
none of her refinement. Cleo liked Marity’s messy dreadlocks, and she
liked Marity even more. “Why watch when you could win? Get the kids
some cards. I’ll put in their ante. No arguing. I’m retired now. I can
do what I want.”

To her right, Professor Ros Toivonen gave a hearty chuckle, a wisp of
white hair falling across her forehead. “Not until the end of the
year, my friend.” She raised her kind brown gaze to Cleo, a card in
her weathered hands. Just last night, Cleo had delivered a message
from the Vice-Premier to Professor Toivonen in Caviglia Library’s
hidden passages. “Do you two know how to play?”

“Dad taught us,” Cleo said. He’d loved Rojagat, and she’d watched him
play many times at this same table from her perch on his knee. I let
them think I’m not any good, he’d whispered once to her, and then I
steal the game with a single hand. They think it’s luck.

A smirk danced across Marity’s face. “Too bad your father was a
terrible Rojagat player. Didn’t know a good hand from a bad hand.”
From an ashtray on her left, she fitted a smoking cigar between two
fingers and added six hundred reals to the pot. Cleo thought maybe
Marity was feeling lucky on her retirement night. Maybe she was trying
to bluff her way to a win. In Rojagat, the winner took all and the
losers of the round had to each replace the pot. Anyone stood to win
or lose a lot of money.

The dealer at the end of the table slid a card toward Cleo’s awaiting
hands, then one to Gavriel. The dealer had a queen of diamonds in
front of her already, regal in red and gold robes. A queen of spades
peered back at Cleo in the dim light—a winning card if only she didn’t
intend to fold. Luck indeed.

Gavriel folded first, then went to tie his long black hair into a bun.
He leaned into Cleo’s side, offering his wine glass to her as he
watched the calls roll in. “So how many rounds are we folding?” he
whispered under the snickers circling the table as a few of the
professors tossed out their card. She took a sip of his
wine—Caseillais wine, to her satisfaction—and the taste rolled on her
tongue for several seconds, sweet and crisp. A familiar hand fell on
her shoulder before she could answer.