you’re doing the magic teaching. Uncle Earn said—” I stopped, because Miss Ochiba’s eyes had narrowed and she was nodding. “You know Uncle Earn?”
“Not in the least, nor do I wish to,” Miss Ochiba said. “I take it that your uncle is a primitive Pythagorean, and has inflicted his unfortunate views on you?”
“Uh—” We’d studied about Pythagoras in our magic-history classes, two years before, but I didn’t remember it as well as I should have. “Pythagoras started number magic?” I said.
Miss Ochiba beamed. “Very good, Miss Rothmer.” Her voice took on the lecturing tone she used in class. “Pythagoras laid the numerical foundation for both mathematics and magic. Unfortunately like many of the ancient Greeks, his work was not always as rigorous as it might have been.”
“You mean he was wrong about thirteenth children being evil and unlucky?” I said.
“Say rather that his comprehension was woefully incomplete,” Miss Ochiba replied. “Which is no serious fault in Pythagoras, who lived over two thousand years ago and did not have the benefit of later work to improve his understanding, but is inexcusable in anyone with a modern education.”
My heart sank. Even if I didn’t remember much about Pythagoras, I knew that “woefully incomplete” didn’t mean wrong.
“So it’s really true,” I blurted.
Miss Ochiba made a clucking noise. “Miss Rothmer, you appear to be a sensible young woman. Consider. Yes, in Avrupan numerancy the number thirteen is associated with a variety of ills, and yes, you are without question a thirteenth child. But you are also a seventh daughter, and the number seven has as much or more association with positive power and good luck as the number thirteen has with bad.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly and she looked at me with an extra-thoughtful expression. “Is your mother by chance a seventh daughter?”
I had to think for a minute which of my aunts were Mama’s sisters and which were sisters-in-law. “No, ma’am. Mama has two sisters and two brothers.”
“Then you are not a double-seventh daughter,” Miss Ochiba said. “But you are the first of twins, a position second only to being the eldest in a family for imparting self-mastery and general authority. Taking a wider view, I presume that with your father’s family being so large you have some number of cousins; so long as you have even one who is older than you, you cannot be your paternal grandfather’s thirteenth grandchild. Are there cousins on your mother’s side of the family? More than one, older than you are?”
I nodded.
“Then you cannot be your maternal grandfather’s thirteenth grandchild, either. I daresay you were not born on the thirteenth day of the month, and as there are only twelve months, you cannot have been born in the thirteenth month of any year. You are not old enough to have been born in the thirteenth year of this century. All these numbers, and more, have meanings and importance, according to Avrupan numerancy theory.”
My head was whirling, but not enough to miss noticing that she’d made a point of mentioning Avrupa twice. I frowned. “Miss Ochiba, are you saying that all those numbers don’t mean anything in other kinds of magic?”
Miss Ochiba smiled. “Some of them don’t mean anything; others don’t mean the same things. Hijero—Cathayan number magic is quite different from Avrupan, and the Aphrikan tradition hardly deals with numbers at all.”
“Different how?” I asked suspiciously.
“The Hijero-Cathayans view life as a process of change,” Miss Ochiba replied. “A small child is not the same as a young man or woman, and a youth is not the same as a parent or an elder, though they may have been born on the same day and have similar places in their respective families. Since the day of birth does not change, the Hijero—Cathayans change the meaning of the number. A thirteenth child—” She stopped and looked at me, then went to a
“Not in the least, nor do I wish to,” Miss Ochiba said. “I take it that your uncle is a primitive Pythagorean, and has inflicted his unfortunate views on you?”
“Uh—” We’d studied about Pythagoras in our magic-history classes, two years before, but I didn’t remember it as well as I should have. “Pythagoras started number magic?” I said.
Miss Ochiba beamed. “Very good, Miss Rothmer.” Her voice took on the lecturing tone she used in class. “Pythagoras laid the numerical foundation for both mathematics and magic. Unfortunately like many of the ancient Greeks, his work was not always as rigorous as it might have been.”
“You mean he was wrong about thirteenth children being evil and unlucky?” I said.
“Say rather that his comprehension was woefully incomplete,” Miss Ochiba replied. “Which is no serious fault in Pythagoras, who lived over two thousand years ago and did not have the benefit of later work to improve his understanding, but is inexcusable in anyone with a modern education.”
My heart sank. Even if I didn’t remember much about Pythagoras, I knew that “woefully incomplete” didn’t mean wrong.
“So it’s really true,” I blurted.
Miss Ochiba made a clucking noise. “Miss Rothmer, you appear to be a sensible young woman. Consider. Yes, in Avrupan numerancy the number thirteen is associated with a variety of ills, and yes, you are without question a thirteenth child. But you are also a seventh daughter, and the number seven has as much or more association with positive power and good luck as the number thirteen has with bad.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly and she looked at me with an extra-thoughtful expression. “Is your mother by chance a seventh daughter?”
I had to think for a minute which of my aunts were Mama’s sisters and which were sisters-in-law. “No, ma’am. Mama has two sisters and two brothers.”
“Then you are not a double-seventh daughter,” Miss Ochiba said. “But you are the first of twins, a position second only to being the eldest in a family for imparting self-mastery and general authority. Taking a wider view, I presume that with your father’s family being so large you have some number of cousins; so long as you have even one who is older than you, you cannot be your paternal grandfather’s thirteenth grandchild. Are there cousins on your mother’s side of the family? More than one, older than you are?”
I nodded.
“Then you cannot be your maternal grandfather’s thirteenth grandchild, either. I daresay you were not born on the thirteenth day of the month, and as there are only twelve months, you cannot have been born in the thirteenth month of any year. You are not old enough to have been born in the thirteenth year of this century. All these numbers, and more, have meanings and importance, according to Avrupan numerancy theory.”
My head was whirling, but not enough to miss noticing that she’d made a point of mentioning Avrupa twice. I frowned. “Miss Ochiba, are you saying that all those numbers don’t mean anything in other kinds of magic?”
Miss Ochiba smiled. “Some of them don’t mean anything; others don’t mean the same things. Hijero—Cathayan number magic is quite different from Avrupan, and the Aphrikan tradition hardly deals with numbers at all.”
“Different how?” I asked suspiciously.
“The Hijero-Cathayans view life as a process of change,” Miss Ochiba replied. “A small child is not the same as a young man or woman, and a youth is not the same as a parent or an elder, though they may have been born on the same day and have similar places in their respective families. Since the day of birth does not change, the Hijero—Cathayans change the meaning of the number. A thirteenth child—” She stopped and looked at me, then went to a
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