Linus Ukadnian put on his bow-tie and scowled into the mirror. The slow burn of irritation built inside him like magma. A new semester, and he would have to face the other demonologists at the Royal Academy of the Arcane Arts and Sciences and act as if he respected them, to pretend dimwitted students had potential and meetings were more than a waste of time.

Linus was a man with his feet on solid ground, a man in touch with the plain facts. And massaging the plain facts to flatter other people's self-delusions was worse than a waste of time; it was a sin, a perversion of the intellect. He would have no truck with such rubbish, he told himself every morning as he trimmed his gray beard. He put on his bow-tie with a feeling of determination, as if it would give him strength to live up to his ideals, and fierce righteousness blazed up inside him as he looked into the mirror.

But by noon Linus had always soft-pedaled his opinion, pretended there were two sides to an issue that had only one, or kept silent while somebody spouted nonsense. Then his bow-tie stopped reminding him of valour and became a mark of cowardice, one he wore as a penance and a promise that one day he would live up to it from morning to night. Today, Linus vowed, would be the day. He would begin this academic year as he meant to go on. He huffed in satisfaction, and his breath made a cloud in the cold air.

***

Linus took journals to department meetings so his time would not be completely wasted. He arrived precisely on time and spent fifteen minutes on the latest issue of Arcane Intrusions, reading about sedimentation and what happened to elemental magic embedded in layers of silt. Then the tardy department members arrived and more time (but not Linus' time!) was wasted on apology and explanation, the agenda, the minutes, arguments over the wording of last semester's arguments over the wording of, etc. Linus read about infinite regress and the arcane calculus of fractals in The Annals of Theoretical Geomancy. At last the meeting got underway, but was immediately monopolized by Theodora Whin and her report from the benefits committee. Whin loved the sound of her own voice… Linus found one of his own letters to the editor in Annalen der Gesteinskundenzauberei, and paid no more attention until Warren Oldham rapped on the table.

"Do I hear a motion to support the proposal? Discussion?"

"There's nothing to discuss," said Whin, as if she hadn't been discussing it for fifteen minutes. "We should have had child care on campus twenty years ago."

"That's the last thing we should have on campus. Children don't belong on the ley-line," said Russell Cinea, who had opinions on everything.

"They're faculty children," Whin said, leaning back to argue with Russell behind the intervening demonologists. "They already live on the ley-line."

"Not with people doing arcane experimentation all around them. It's one thing if a demon rips one of us apart. We've asked for it."

"Speak for yourself," said Whin, tactlessly since Russell had, in fact, recently lost a hand to a demon. During the silence Linus remembered his bow-tie and his vow.

"How much will our salaries be docked to pay for this luxury?" he asked, his tone making it clear that no answer would satisfy.

"Child care isn't a luxury," Whin shot back. "It's a necessity."

Linus snorted. "Our mothers didn't need it," he said. "It's modern women who want help with every task of life, all the while claiming they're as good as men. You'd think they could do without handouts."

"If they had full-time wives, they could!"

"My mother didn't have one, and I doubt yours did either," Linus retorted.

Patsy Hoth handed him a paper – the list of busywork, making its way around the table as it did at every first meeting. Linus raised his pen and froze in outrage. He was conscious of the others watching him, some with glee and some with irritation. Linus did not gratify them, however. He merely crossed Will Goth-Harding's name off the Library Use Committee, and wrote his own in its place.

"Hey!" said Will, jumping to a correct conclusion as he saw Linus' pen move. "That's my committee. First come, first served."

"I have been on the Library Use Committee for fifteen years," said Linus.

"It's a blank signup," said Will. "I got it first." He appealed to Warren.

Warren sighed and gave Will a stern look, as well he ought. "Why are you suddenly after Linus' committee?"

"Since I found out he hasn't had to attend a meeting for eight years," said Will. "The library director schedules them during faculty members' class times. Share the wealth, Linus."

"Oh!" squeaked Whin indignantly. "You mean while the rest of us work our butts off, all Linus does is sign that paper!"

"I donate an hour of my time every day to your research in the pentarium," Linus informed her. "What I do with the rest of it is not your concern."

"In Social Magic, they give the Library Use Committee to whoever has the largest student load," Will said to Warren. "That would be me." And it would never be Linus, who had stepped off the rotation for introductory courses two years ago after a bruising battle; Warren had been a sore loser, and bringing it up again was a clever move on Will's part. Defeat was in the room, and now it took a step closer.

"Will's right," Warren said, not even pretending to consider Linus' rights. "Choose something nobody else has signed up for."

"This is unfair to the last person who gets the list," Linus complained.

"I was next to last, and I'm not whining," said Patsy Hoth. "Sign it or don't, but let the rest of us get on with our work." Linus glared at her, and at the agreement in his colleagues' faces.

"Very well, then, I won't sign it," he said.

"Fine," said Warren. "I need someone for Freshman Advising, Homecoming, and the Orientation Committee, anyway." Linus felt defeat's cold breath on his spine. He looked back at the list, which offered the Committee for Reconceptualizing the Liberal Arts Curriculum, Student Life Council, or Curator of the Museum of Natural Magic, a job which he knew involved feeding at least one vampire. His choice was clear; but his bow-tie lay a leaden weight around his neck.