The same sharp and black-inked “Miss Blair” caught my eye. What? Was he not really… that is, noticing Charlotte after all? Maybe everything is not as hopeless as I thought?
I read the advertisement, then the professor’s sharp handwriting. “I’m looking for models to star in commercials. Textured girls are welcome, beautiful eyes are a must.” By the way, Charlotte’s eyes… now mine… are truly beautiful, unusual, with a magical green. “They write “eyes”, they think “chest”. Just right for Miss Blair. Good use of its texture and, of course, the eyes.”
Yes, yes, I did, I did. I imagined my reaction if I found out that our editor-in-chief considered me a brainless slob, good only for shaking my tits in advertising. I would quit right away! This is, after all, humiliating! But Charlotte… She couldn't be that idiotic?! Still, they took her here, to this “most prestigious” educational institution! although… what did she say about her rich father? Maybe it was not only or not so much for your own merits that you were lucky enough to be in this place? Or does the professor simply have excessive demands on his assistants? But what is there to exaggerate, if even I, knowing nothing about the world in general and the academy in particular, can cope quite well? Or have I not encountered any difficult tasks yet?
I looked at the even lines of the advertisement and the slanting, sharp, flying handwriting of Dr. Norwood and could not understand what to do now. Because, to be honest, the first and so far only option that came to mind was stupid and hysterical – to grab the professor by the lapels of his immaculately pressed jacket, shake him and scream: “I’m not her!”
Okay, no need to shake. And don't yell. But something needs to be done?! Because now my-Charlotte’s chances of getting attention from him are close to absolute zero. And I can't even blame him for that.
Nightmare.
The coffee ran out, I looked in surprise into the empty cup – I didn’t notice how I drank it. And no fun.
Should I do more?
No. Useless. I’ll drink one more or ten more and nothing will change. Neither this stupid ad nor Dougal Norwood's opinion of Charlotte will go away. Hopelessness.
I put the leaf down, pressing it with an empty cup.
– Sydney. Five days, even a half. “Great,” she said out loud and didn’t recognize her own voice. Oh yes. He's not mine anyway.
“Dream during your lunch break,” came a voice from the door. – You are needed in the lower laboratory. Workshop on sublimation with alchemists. “The professor walked to his desk and suddenly turned around. It seems that this was the first time he looked at me like that – directly and for an infinitely long time, and his dark eyebrow slowly crawled up. Can a person actually arch his eyebrows like that? So what's going on? Not a single muscle moved on the professor’s face, but for some reason it seemed that this was an extreme degree of amazement for him. – Since when are you interested in newspapers? And why wasn’t the main flower garden covered with snow for such an occasion? – he asked venomously. – Mrs. Trunberry suddenly went on vacation? So find another healer.
“I already found it,” I chuckled. – I’ll take this number, there’s just a suitable ad here. Do you mind? If you still need it, I'll return it tomorrow.
– Not needed. And hurry up. In fifteen minutes, even Mr. Obley should be standing at the cauldron with a set of ingredients.
