The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

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The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 10

by Tapscott, Shari L.


  Marcus nods, his sharp green eyes likely seeing the way my cheeks darken. “It suits you. Don’t hide your mark again.”

  “Yes, Master,” I murmur, wishing the housekeeper would hurry.

  “Marcus.”

  “Master Marcus,” I immediately correct.

  The sorcerer watches me for a moment longer before he looks down. A smile ghosts across his face. “Just Marcus will be fine.”

  I’ve lived in this man’s house for weeks, but I barely know him. Yet somehow, I feel we’ve reached a turning point. Was it yesterday’s boldness? My blunt request for him to teach me something? I don’t know.

  Thankfully, before I have time to dwell on it further, Mrs. Stone brings in the porridge. It’s gray and sticky, topped with seeds and dried berries—the same as usual. I pour cream over the top and spoon in a healthy portion of sugar. Not that it helps.

  “What are your plans for the morning?” Marcus asks, setting the book aside.

  I stare at its cover, slightly disconcerted. We don’t speak over breakfast. Marcus reads whilst pretending I don’t exist, and I choke down my porridge, wishing I didn’t exist.

  “I’m going into the village.”

  “What for?”

  The question is more conversational than inquisitional, and I slowly relax. Marcus doesn’t know my determination to keep Gavin close. In fact, he probably figures I’ve forgotten all about the guard from my previous life—he certainly would have by now if he were me.

  “I’m going to toss out the poor excuse for tea in the cupboard and buy something that was grown and dried in this century.”

  Again, that amused smile flashes across his face. “Be sure to return by tea time.”

  Hiding a smile of my own, I nod. “I will.”

  * * *

  Feeling lighter than I have in days, I walk into the general goods shop…and then stop halfway through the door. Gavin is at the counter, talking to Kella. She laughs at something he says, looking at him like he’s the sun and the moon, all rolled into one. His back is to me, so I can’t see his face.

  Noticing me loitering in the doorway, Kella looks over. Her eyes widen as she takes in my robes. Then they move to my mark, which is on display for all to see. There’s no hiding my status now. Her smile becomes polite but guarded. “Good morning, Brynn.”

  “Morning, Kella.”

  “So it’s true then.” She motions to her face, to the spot her mark would be if she were an apprentice sorceress.

  “Yes.”

  She nods, looking hesitant.

  “How may I help you?” she finally asks, and then she not so subtly gives Gavin a sideways look, begging me to get on with it so she can flirt some more with the guard-turned-blacksmith.

  “I’m looking for coffee.”

  Her eyebrows go up. “Coffee?”

  The question makes me pause, and then I walk toward the counter, ignoring the fact that Gavin has turned to face me.

  What does he think of my robe? Or the way I’ve done my hair?

  I try to avoid his gaze—I really do—but I glance at him once I’m close, unable to help myself. His expression is cautious, as usual, but there’s a softness around his eyes—a knowing glint. It’s a friendly, more-than-acquaintances sort of acknowledgment that makes my insides feel like sun-warmed honey.

  “It’s a drink,” I explain to Kella, “brewed from—”

  She cuts me off with a laugh. “Good heavens—we’re not that backward. I know what it is. But no one around here has ever requested it. We’re more of a tea sort of community.” And though she wears a smile, her tone is the slightest bit condescending.

  All right then.

  “I’m going to Heston tomorrow,” Gavin says to me. “Would you like me to pick some up for you?”

  “Would you?” I ask, almost reaching for his arm. Since I feel Kella’s hawkish gaze on us, I resist the urge. The last thing I need is for Marcus to hear from a jealous shopgirl that the two of us are a little too friendly.

  Gavin nods as if it’s no problem.

  Kella stands a bit straighter. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you need?” Which seems to be her not-so-subtle way of asking me to leave.

  I glance at Gavin, trying not to smirk. Knowing him as I do, I believe it’s safe to say the pretty girl’s attention is making him uncomfortable.

  “I only need some tea, and then I’ll be on my way,” I promise her. Leaving the two at the counter, I wrap myself a small package and place several coins in front of the shopkeeper. “Thank you, Kella.”

  The girl’s smile brightens as I turn toward the door. “Have a good day!”

  “You as well,” I say, almost resisting the urge to roll my eyes when my back is to her…but not quite.

  I’m out of the shop, heading down the street, nearly to the edge of the village, when I hear someone jogging up behind me.

  I glance at Gavin and give him a wry smirk. “You have an admirer.”

  “Yes, I am fully aware.”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “She’s not you.”

  I stop and turn to him, startled by the blunt statement. “Do you mean that?”

  “I do.” His eyes rove over me, taking in my new robe. “Apparently Marcus has decided to claim you after all.”

  “It’s about time; don’t you think?”

  He only nods.

  Feeling as if there are eyes on us, I glance back toward the village. Sure enough, a certain elf leans next to the inn. He raises his hand in acknowledgment and then pushes from the wall, climbs the old wooden stairs, and disappears inside.

  “Have you spoken with him again?” Gavin asks.

  “He cornered me as I was leaving the village yesterday.” Gavin gives me a sharp look, but I wave his concern away. “It was fine. He’s looking for someone, and he believes Marcus has contact with her.” I rub my nose, knowing he’s just going to love this next part. “He warned me to be cautious of Marcus.”

  Gavin grunts in agreement.

  “You don’t trust the sorcerer either?”

  The guard rolls his shoulders, avoiding the question.

  “I’m finally beginning my lessons today,” I say, changing the subject.

  Gavin looks back. “What’s it been? A month?”

  “I know. I was beginning to wonder if I was destined to be an errand girl for the rest of my life.”

  Without either of us voicing our intent, we walk together, into the forest.

  “How is the smithing going?” I ask.

  “Fine. Brunhilda has allowed me to graduate from nails to horseshoes.”

  “Oh,” I tease. “Impressive.”

  “I don’t want to brag, but tomorrow, I might attempt a spade.”

  “Aren’t you the overeager apprentice?” I tease.

  We hang back when we get close to the manor, and Gavin catches my arm. “Are you doing well, Brynn? Honestly?”

  I nod immediately, but he gives me a look, telling me he can see through me. After several minutes, I step closer and lower my voice. “The housekeeper’s a bit odd.”

  “Isn’t she mute? How can she be odd if she doesn’t speak?”

  Feeling like a fool, a smile flits over my face, and I shake my head. “I swear I saw her do the strangest thing.”

  He crosses his arms and waits.

  “I think…I mean, I’m almost positive…” I take a deep breath. “Gavin, she ate a grasshopper.”

  My friend watches me carefully, his brow knitting. “A grasshopper?”

  “She plucked it right off the ground!” I whisper.

  A crooked smile tips his lips. It’s so bright and full of mischief, it would take my breath away if we were speaking of anything else. “Raw? If she’d only cooked it first—”

  I swat his arm, groaning. “That’s awful.”

  That grin grows, and he leans down, meeting me at eye level. “If you think that’s disturbing, imagine what she’s putting in your supper.”

  My eyes go
wide at the thought, and my stomach churns.

  “Surely your eyes deceived you. Little old ladies don’t nibble on insects.” Laughing, he steps back. “But just to be on the safe side, you could take over the cooking.”

  I shake my head. “I can make tea and coffee and bake a lovely scone, but I’ve never cooked an actual meal.”

  Gavin shrugs, and then his expression goes solemn. “The sorcerer is treating you well?”

  “We’re making progress.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “I know.” I let out a long sigh, wishing I could linger but knowing I had better not. “I should go.”

  “I’m leaving for Heston in the morning,” Gavin reminds me. “Will you be all right until evening?”

  I laugh. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes,” I promise. “I might drop dead from the housekeeper’s cooking, but I don’t sense any danger from Marcus.”

  His eyebrow twitches when I say the sorcerer’s name, but he doesn’t mention it.

  “Oh,” I say before I go. “I have another letter—this one for my parents. Will you take it as well?”

  “You finally worked up the courage to write it?”

  I nod.

  Gavin takes it from me. “Be careful, Brynn.”

  “You as well. Say hello to your mother and William for me.”

  We stand, facing each other, neither of us wishing to be the first to leave. We’re not that close, not really, but it feels as if the space between us falls away. My pulse jumps, and I swallow. If I extend my arm, I could place my hand on his shoulder.

  And what if I were to step in and angle my head up? Would he meet me? He’s as stubborn as an old mule, but if he feels even half of what I feel…

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice dropping. It’s a warning laced with invitation, and I find it intoxicating.

  “Like what?” I challenge, and this time, I move in.

  He shifts closer as well. “Like you did that first day in the orchard.”

  “You told me not to make eyes at the guards. Remember?” We are truly close now, so close his body blocks the chill of the spring morning. I can just smell his soap—a crisp scent layered with earthy hardwood oils. It’s a foreign fragrance, different from the lavender and chamomile I grew up using. Darker. More masculine.

  “Sound advice.” His eyes lock on mine. “Though you blatantly ignored it.”

  “Perhaps, but I only had eyes for one.”

  Gavin laughs under his breath. And then, to my great surprise and sheer delight, his eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a heartbeat. The look alone causes butterflies to riot in my stomach.

  “I knew you were trouble the day I met you,” he says quietly.

  “You had no use for me the day we met.”

  He laughs again, but this time the sound is less amused. “You don’t truly believe that, do you?”

  “You’ve never given me any reason to believe otherwise.”

  He stares at me for several long seconds, looking like he’s waging an internal battle. Then, as if he simply cannot fight it any longer, he leans in, lowering his head until his mouth hovers dangerously close to my ear. “You snared me the moment we met. Never doubt it.”

  My knees weaken, and I reach out, clasping the sides of his waist to keep my balance. He’s iron under his tunic, solid.

  “Gavin,” I whisper.

  “We can’t.” But with his words tickling my ear, I believe it’s safe to assume his restraint is failing.

  Before I can respond, just when I think that finally, after all these years, we’re going to have our moment, a distinctive whoo sounds from the tree directly behind me, making me jump.

  I whirl around, startled to hear the midnight sound in the middle of the morning. And there on a branch sits a familiar owl, staring at me with his golden eyes.

  “Porter,” I hiss, pressing my fist over my rapidly beating heart. “What in the world are you doing out of the house in the middle of the day?”

  Of course, I don’t expect a response, but the owl gives me one anyway. He flaps his silent wings and whoos again, this time sounding even more reproachful than before.

  A tiny tendril of fear winds its way into my heart. Surely Marcus can’t communicate with the owl? The sorcerer might be capable of many things, but speaking with animals is impossible.

  Isn’t it?

  I glance back at Gavin only to find my guard looks just as disconcerted as I, which is less than reassuring. “I should go back,” I say slowly. Then I turn to the owl. “He’s only taking a letter for me.”

  “Are you explaining yourself to the bird?” Gavin demands.

  I give Gavin a helpless shrug.

  Without another whoo, flap of his wings, or withering fowlish look, Porter leaps from the tree and takes to the sky, flying toward the manor.

  “I take it you are acquainted with that owl,” Gavin says after several heavy moments.

  Very seriously, I look at my guard. “May I admit something?”

  He frowns but nods.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going mad.”

  Gavin laughs abruptly, apparently amused by the thought. “I’ll find a way to see you when I return.”

  He then takes my hand, brushes his lips over my knuckles, and turns back toward the village.

  “Would you have kissed me if we hadn’t been interrupted?” I ask boldly. My cheeks heat, and my stomach tightens, but I don’t attempt to take back the question.

  Gavin stops, still facing away from me. “Most likely.”

  And then he continues, disappearing into the shifting morning mist.

  17

  It’s precisely time for afternoon tea when I knock on Marcus’s study door with the silver tray in my hands—using my elbow this time instead of my foot.

  Moments later, the sorcerer answers. He glances at his pocket watch and frowns. “You’re exceptionally punctual.”

  “Thank you.”

  His frown deepens as he studies me, making me question whether his words were meant as a compliment. Either way, he nods me inside.

  Unlike yesterday, I try not to gape as I take in my surroundings. The sunlit spell book looks a little less magical today due to the heavy cloud cover, but it’s still magnificent there on its pedestal.

  “I was able to buy tea,” I say as I set the tray on the already cleared desk. “I asked for coffee, but the shopgirl looked at me as if I were speaking a different language.”

  Marcus nods and sits in his chair, presumably waiting for me to get on with the afternoon ritual. I pour his cup first, and then my own, breathing in the comforting aroma, confident this will trump the vile concoction he’s been drinking.

  As I was waiting for the kettle to come to a boil, I even took the time to cut his sugar cubes in half with a sharp knife. I add one to his cup now, give it a delicate stir, and then hand it to him.

  “I found some biscuits in the cupboard.” I nudge the plate toward him after he takes his first sip, unnerved by his silence. “They’re not bad.”

  He accepts one of the sugared disks, leans back in his chair, and studies me.

  “How old are you, Brynn?” he finally asks, though he should be praising me for the excellent cup of tea I just served him.

  “I’m twenty,” I answer, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  I blink, startled by the blunt question. “Because I was expected to go to the College on the Mount.”

  And apparently, it’s my turn to startle him because his eyes widen, and he tips his head back slightly, almost as if he’s really looking at me for the first time. “The College on the Mount?”

  “That’s right.”

  He schools his surprise. “I thought only homely girls ended up in their academically esteemed walls.”

  I bite my tongue, trying to find an answer which won’t get me boo
ted out of the house. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You must be bright if the college accepted you. They had accepted you, correct?”

  “Yes. I was on my way to join them when my carriage busted an axle. That’s when I met you.”

  “I see.” He nods, setting his biscuit aside without trying it. “Tell me, were you taking a leisurely walk, or were you running?”

  “The first became the latter after we spoke.”

  Though I try to keep my eyes on Marcus, they seem prone to wandering. There’s just so much to look at. Pots and jars line the back walls. Several are made of glass, and jewel-colored crystals shimmer from within. They let off a dim glow, their shine too unique to be confused with sunlight.

  There are hundreds of candles as well, all of them scattered on dishes and trays and resting in sconces along the walls. A heavy iron lantern rests on the desk. The big, fat lard candle within burns despite the daylight hour, and it oozes wax down the sides. More cooled wax pools at the bottom, mimicking the illustrations I’ve seen of lava from slow-erupting volcanoes.

  A pewter sculpture no larger than my hand rests next to the lantern. It’s a well-crafted swan—no surprise there, asleep and at peace. Her head is tucked under her wing while she slumbers.

  I answer Marcus’s next few questions, only half paying attention to the conversation as I take in the rest of the room. A massive oil painting hangs over a bureau in the corner—another swan, also fast asleep, this one the fancy of the artist who created her. The graceful bird wears a necklace dripping with rubies and diamonds. The piece of jewelry is fit for a queen, not a bird.

  “Do you like it?” Marcus asks, catching me staring at the canvas.

  I turn back to him and tuck my hands in my lap. “I’ve noticed something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It seems you have quite the fascination with swans.”

  He gives me a secret smile, one that barely tips his lips and lights his eyes. “You could say that.”

  “Poor Porter.” I give the bird a pointed look. He’s asleep on his stand, giving me no indication that he was out spying on me before. “If he only had a longer neck.”

 

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