Vespera's head tilted. The blindfold — still tied, the black cloth covering her eyes — shifted. She frowned. The academic reflex — the need to organize information, to present it clearly, to structure her knowledge — fired despite the circumstances. Despite the nakedness. Despite the magic circle glowing beneath her. Despite the lingering warmth of the ceremony.
"Class A," she started. Her voice was measured. Clipped. The lecture-hall voice, the one she used when addressing two hundred students who hadn't done the reading. "The senior class. The top cohort. There are four — well, five, if you count the transfer — students who consistently rank at the top."
She held up her hand. Her fingers — ink-stained, slender — extended one by one as she counted. The gesture was unconscious. The habit of a professor.
