it out! Magic. Real magic, not faked by scammers. One step – and you are even in another city, even on the other side of the world! No crowding in the subway, no fear of plane crashes. A couple of waves of your hand – and order is in your head and in your house. What then can be created with really serious effort?!
The snatches of conversations that were snatched out of my ear – at lunch, in the dining room, and between couples while I was running around changing the schedule – turned out to be almost completely incomprehensible to me. They discussed the features of some phases in some rituals, and whether they change when Latin is replaced by Greek or Sanskrit. They complained about the failure of the harvest of some creeping rotten plants – honestly, I would not be upset about the failure of something with such an unappetizing name! They complained about Professor Krushanski, who failed almost the entire group in the test – this misfortune would have been quite understandable if not for the topic of the test: “The influence of seismic activity of magical territories on the development of the population of ordinary sensoria.” What is this sensory? Does it have anything to do with sensors or just sounds similar? Charlotte, overhearing my bewilderment, explained mysteriously:
– Dr. Krushanski is a leading expert on population dynamics, but his theory of seismic stability control is considered by many to be unproven.
“You have a medical academy? – I was surprised. “What does population and especially seismic activity have to do with it?”
“Sensory,” Charlotte explained. – A rare and valuable ingredient, found only in seismically unstable areas. Foretells earthquakes, eruptions and other cataclysms by explosive reproduction. That is, Krushanski thinks so. He invites all those who disagree to settle somewhere on the slope of Krakatoa or Mauna Loa and check it out personally.
In short, there would be enough new interesting topics in this world for me to last for years and years. ? here…
Stop. I don’t even know for sure…
“Charlotte, listen! Did you say a week?
– Yes. Do you have memory problems?
“Happy calendar! – I snapped. – How is this week counted? Since this morning? Since the beginning of the day? How much time do I have, exactly?”
Charlotte didn't answer right away. She hung there, swaying in the wind, like a translucent wet sheet, and was silent. I waited, getting more and more nervous. Did she just now think about it and decide to count? Or doesn't she know?
Finally she answered:
“Everything went wrong from the second phase of the ritual.” The second phase necessarily begins exactly at midnight. But I remembered it well. This means from midnight or a little later, when this body was left without a soul.
Wonderful. Minus the night. Although… to be honest, what could happen at night? Whether Dr. Norwood was some kind of cheerful partygoer, or a Casanova who doesn’t miss a single skirt, much less such outstanding tits, or at least a lover of night walks arm in arm with his assistant, it’s a different matter. But you can hardly count on communication with this cracker outside of working hours.
Hopelessly. Hopelessly.
“Charlotte,” I asked, quickly wiping away a treacherous tear, “let’s go home.”
“Go, you know how,” she responded. I pulled back the invisible curtain and stepped…
***
Unlike quick breakfasts, Charlotte didn’t bother with dinners. No stock of food in the magical analogue of the refrigerator, not even some yesterday's soup.
“The person I was before preferred to buy ready-made,” Charlotte explained. – Easier. She had enough money, but she didn’t like to tinker in the kitchen.
– I don’t like it either, although in this we are similar. So, explain what and how you are doing here.
I examined the contents of her – now my – purse back at lunch; there was a wallet, in it – unfamiliar coins and a thick pack of plastic cards. Two bank ones and a bunch of bonus ones. By the way, I received a free lunch for employees by presenting my key fob. More precisely, by applying it to the identification plate at the checkout. Comfortable. But they didn’t serve dinner in the academic canteen.
“Order here,” the ghost chose a card with a delicious picture of pizza. – You're hungry, and they have fast delivery. Just pick it up and think about the menu, a communication window will open.
What can I say – it’s more convenient than the phone and even the Internet! I chose a large pizza with mushrooms and a salad, added fruit juice to my order, and at the last moment added beer. I don’t like him too much, but it’s a shame to end up in another world and not be able to compare? Moreover, there may be very little time for comparison.
Thoughts turned to the professor. While I very much doubted that I would be able not only to make him fall in love with me, but even to fall in love myself. He didn’t evoke any disgust or rejection, but he didn’t evoke any positive emotions either. Demanding, corrosive boss. He nitpicks over little things. He’s not rude, but… honestly, it would be better to be rude! If I had been a little more impressionable, his chillingly polite remarks could have brought me to tears. Noticeably distances himself. This is reasonable behavior for a boss, but it makes my task even more impossible. As if it weren’t already almost impossible!
Just one day – and even in my thoughts I call this cracker exclusively a professor! An amazing start to a romantic love story.
– Tell about him.
“You’ve already seen it,” it seems, this was an objection. Or surprise? In general, I understood that the ghost considers the information given out in the morning to be exhaustive and is not eager to repeat it.
–What kind of person is he? – I decided to be persistent – in the end, my life or death may well depend on the exact answer! – The world's luminary – understandable. Head of the department – I've seen enough today. But if you put the scientist, the boss and the teacher aside, what remains? It is not the doctor and the professor who should fall in love, but Dougal Norwood. And the doctor and professor did not inspire me either. Maybe the person will be more interesting.
Charlotte froze, perhaps even froze in place, as if plunged into deep thought. It looked, frankly, scary. Not only is it a ghost, but also a motionless ghost in the middle of a nice little kitchen, flooded with sunset light from the windows.
– Hey! – I couldn’t stand it. – Are you still here?
“It’s strange,” she finally woke up, floated across the kitchen and hovered by the window. – The man Dougal Norwood is not in Charlotte's memories. Doctor, luminary, boss, man, but all this is very general, schematic. Dislikes public speaking, students, almost everyone, with rare exceptions, open doors and tea. It seems that's it.
– Few. – Actually, practically nothing: I already understood about the doors, but inviting the professor to tea… well, it’s already clear that it’s a failed idea. – What does he like?
– Brew potions. But this is already clear,” Charlotte paused, as if she was listening to something or really carefully examining the living memory of who she was before. – Silence. Your own personal laboratory. Still a mother. Yes, Mrs. Norwood comes here often, I remember something like this… Lemon cinnamon pudding. The last time Charlotte ordered in advance was in London.
Hopeless,
