by R. L. King
Alastair regarded the books with dismayed fascination. It would take him days to get all that sorted out…but how many interesting books and how much magical knowledge were likely to reside in that pile? “Yes, sir.”
“I hope they’ve been teaching you Latin in that school of yours. Many of the books are written in that language. Some are written in other languages, including magical ones—anything you can’t read yet, just shelve them together at the end until you can determine where to put them.”
He turned away from the piles, toward a closed wooden armoire along the adjacent wall. “You will have another task as well. None of the staff are permitted to enter my workroom, which means that its upkeep is not their responsibility. It now becomes yours.” He waved, and the closet opened to reveal a series of brooms, dusters, buckets, and other cleaning products. “I’ll expect you to keep the shelves dusted, the floor clean, and of course to tidy up after any assignments that might go awry. You’ll find a large sink in the lavatory through that door,” he added, pointing. “It shouldn’t take you long each day, but there will be periodic inspections. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” So his apprenticeship would involve some grunt work as well as learning magic. He supposed it was sort of classic. A vision of himself dressed as Mickey Mouse and directing ambulatory brooms around a sodden floor flashed to mind, but for now, at least, he’d have to do things the old-fashioned way.
“All right, then. You’ve four hours left until dinner is served. Your assignments for today are to begin sorting and shelving the books and clean the place up a bit. We don’t typically serve formal breakfast or lunch here, but the kitchen staff take requests within reason, and the basics are always available. In general, however, I’d advise you not to linger long over meals. You won’t have time.”
“Yes, sir.” That wouldn’t be a problem. He often forgot to eat or bolted something down from the vending machines when busy on a project at Barrow.
“One more assignment you might find more interesting: you’ll need to introduce yourself to the household staff and become acquainted with them, so by tomorrow morning I’ll expect a report from you including the name of each person, his or her position, and the appearance of his or her aura. Kerrick will arrive shortly; you can ask him to give you a tour of the house and introduce you.”
“Yes, sir.” That one might prove a bit more challenging, and not because he didn’t think he could view the auras. He was already fairly certain that Desmond’s comment about riding a bicycle was correct. No, the challenging part would be interacting with the staff. Meeting new people wasn’t his favorite thing to do. At least Kerrick was here now, so he didn’t have to ask Samuels to introduce him. The steward was far too formal and stuffy for his tastes. “Are—they expecting me to be staring at them, sir?”
“Believe me, Mr. Stone, a bit of staring is one of the least odd things they’ll be expecting from you.”
Oh. Well, that was…encouraging. Maybe. “Understood, sir. Thank you.”
Alastair barely got a quarter of the way through sorting and shelving the books before he glanced at his watch and discovered it was already six forty-five. That meant he’d only have half an hour to tidy up before he had to be upstairs for dinner.
Aside from the week before he’d headed to Desmond’s, he’d never technically been allowed in his father’s library; the book he’d borrowed to work on his ritual at Barrow had been taken surreptitiously, without knowledge or consent. Now, here were a thousand or more books, every one of them about some aspect of magic—its history, its study, or its applications. There were dictionaries, reference books, workbooks, books of formulae, biographies…each time he picked one up and riffled through it, his curiosity grew. At first he’d set a few aside, planning to take them back to his room with him for further study. But when his stack grew to twenty volumes and he’d barely worked his way through fifty, he changed his plan. He’d just leave them here for now—if he did what Desmond had ordered him to do, he should have the whole thing organized so he could find anything quickly.
Even so, he’d moved a lot slower than he’d planned to. This wasn’t good. The books still littered the floor, though he’d managed to start several stacks alongside the heap. He hadn’t done any of the cleaning yet. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he skipped his first dinner at Caventhorne, despite Desmond’s assurance that he wouldn’t be required to attend meals if he chose not to. And, to top things off, he’d forgotten to ask Desmond where to meet Kerrick.
Brilliant, Stone, he thought. You’re off to a great start.
Hastily, he gathered a couple of his stacks and returned them to two different bookshelves. He wasn’t sure he’d keep that sorting method, but for now at least he was following the letter, if not the spirit, of Desmond’s directive: begin sorting and shelving the books.
He took a quick glanced around the room, hoping Desmond wouldn’t come back here to check on things until he’d had more time to make progress later this evening, then hurried toward the armoire full of cleaning supplies. He wouldn’t have time to do much now, but at least he could manage a bit of dusting.
He needn’t have worried about Kerrick—he found the man in the great room when he took the lift back up to the ground floor a half-hour later. “Ah, sir,” Kerrick said, smiling. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost track of time.”
“I almost did,” he said. “Can you show me where the dining room is? Mr. Desmond said dinner was at seven-thirty.”
“Of course, sir. Mr. Desmond will be out for the evening, so he asked me to dine with you a bit more informally, if that’s all right. He thought I might be able to answer any questions you might have about the nonmagical aspects of life around here.”
Alastair tried not to let his relief show—both that he wouldn’t have to eat his first meal in this huge, formal place alone, and that he wouldn’t have to eat it sitting across from the stern, judgmental scrutiny of William Desmond. “That’s brilliant. I’d enjoy the company—and the answers.”
Kerrick chuckled and indicated for Alastair to follow him. “This way, then. I’d imagine this is all quite an upheaval for you.”
He wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. “In a way,” he said at last. “Bit more formal than I’m used to—and given who my father is, that’s saying something.”
“This place is likely a bit more formal than almost anyone is used to,” Kerrick said wryly, leading the way down yet another hallway and into a long, narrow dining room featuring a table twice the size of the one at the London house. Two places had been set halfway down its length, one on each side. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll let the kitchen know you’re here. Please, sit down. By the way,” he added, “just a tip I might offer, if I may: It’s quite all right tonight, of course, but on nights when you’re to be dining with Mr. Desmond, he prefers—well—” He gestured in Alastair’s general direction and appeared to struggle for the right words.
Alastair looked down at himself and sighed. He’d been so focused on sorting through the massive stacks of books and doing as much tidying up as he could manage in the brief time he’d had left that he hadn’t paid any attention to his appearance. His white shirt was streaked with dust, his shirttail was coming untucked, and he was sure his hair must be more of a rat’s nest than usual. “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing himself not to stuff his shirttail back in before Kerrick departed. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”
Kerrick’s expression settled back to its normal pleasantness. “Don’t worry about it, sir. Really. Believe me, I’ve seen older apprentices than you get even more unsettled during their first few encounters with Mr. Desmond. He’s—quite a formidable person. You’re doing fine. Just think of me as a sort of…buffer between the two of you, to help you adjust to life around here as easily as possible.”
“I do appreciate
that,” Alastair said, and meant it.
“Right, then. Sit down, please, and let me see to dinner, and then you can ask your questions.”
Alastair fixed his shirt, tried his best to brush off the worst of the dust, and ran his fingers through the front of his hair before choosing the spot on the far side of the table. Left alone, he took an interest in his surroundings.
Desmond definitely wasn’t a fan of your typical posh-and-boring upper class decorating style. Alastair was sure all the items hanging in the dining room, from paintings to odd-looking items couldn’t identify, were both very old and very valuable, but he didn’t see any standard pastoral scenes or coats of arms. Instead, the paintings depicted stern-looking men and women dressed in clothes that didn’t quite fit into a particular historical era, interior scenes that looked like the sanctums of rich old wizards, and scraps of scrolls written in languages he couldn’t begin to identify. One object looked like a cross between a dagger and some kind of spear point made of an unusual, multicolored metal, and another appeared to be a round shield far too small to be useful to anyone larger than a toddler.
On a hunch, Alastair took a few deep breaths to calm himself, put his hands on the table, and tried to activate his magical sight. After a couple of failed attempts, the familiar purple-and gold aura sprang up around his hands. Without letting his gaze slip, he raised it to the walls.
None of the paintings glowed, but both the tiny shield and the odd weapon did—the former with a weak, pulsing blue nimbus, and the latter with a brighter red one that seemed to poke out in pointed shards around its outlines. A couple of the scroll fragments put off faint golden illumination.
“Sir?”
Alastair jumped, startled out of his focus as all the glows winked out. Kerrick had returned, followed by a white-clad woman pushing a cart. “Sorry—was just—” He waved vaguely toward the walls.
“Of course, sir. No need to explain.”
The woman said nothing as she worked. She put covered plates down at Alastair’s place and then at Kerrick’s, followed by a crystal goblet and a wineglass at each setting. She finished up with a bottle of wine, a carafe of water, and a basket of bread, then bowed slightly and departed.
Alastair didn’t remember his assignment until after she’d left, mentally kicking himself for not getting a look at her aura. He surreptitiously tried shifting back to magical sight again so he could look at Kerrick’s, wondering if he could do it without the concentration ritual. To his surprise and delight, it worked immediately. He supposed Desmond must have been right about it being like riding a bike—it got easier each time he tried it. Kerrick’s aura was a strong, clear medium blue, and extended about three inches from his body.
Kerrick must have noticed what he was doing, because he looked at him oddly. “Sir?”
“Sorry. Mr. Desmond gave me an assignment to look at everyone’s auras.”
“Ah. Of course. You must forgive me—it’s been a while.”
“After we’re finished here, would you have time to introduce me to the rest of the staff? He wants a report by tomorrow morning.”
“Certainly.” He popped the cork on the wine bottle and indicated Alastair’s glass.
Apparently Desmond wasn’t kidding about treating him like an adult. On the one hand, a little wine might calm him down; on the other, it might be a test. And the last thing he needed was to have Desmond make a surprise appearance and find him at less than his sharpest. “I’ll…just have water, thanks,” he said, and poured himself a glass.
For a few minutes they said nothing as they ate. The fare was simple but exquisitely prepared, and Alastair, who hadn’t had anything to eat since that morning, forced himself not to wolf it down. Instead, he thought about Kerrick’s words until his curiosity finally got the better of him. “Kerrick…” he began tentatively.
“Yes, sir?”
“You said before that it had been a while since you’ve had apprentices around here looking at auras. It reminded me of something my father told me when I first found out I’d be coming here.”
“What is that?”
Alastair took another sip of water to hide his apprehension. “He said that Mr. Desmond hadn’t taken an apprentice in many years, and that he was quite surprised he even agreed to give me a trial.”
For several seconds that stretched out longer than they should have, Kerrick didn’t reply. “I must admit I was surprised as well,” he said at last.
“Surprised that he decided to take an apprentice—well, a trial one, anyway—at all, or that he took one so young?”
“Both, actually.” He set his wineglass down.
Alastair stared down at his now-cleared plate. He wanted to ask Kerrick another question—whether Desmond’s long period without an apprentice had anything to do with the one who’d died—but Kerrick had already told him in his oh-so-polite way that that subject was off limits. Instead, he asked, “Why do you suppose he did it, then? Does he know my father?”
A sudden thought knifed at him: his father was, as far as he knew, powerful and influential in Britain’s magical community. What if Desmond owed him a favor, and that was the only reason he’d agreed to give Alastair a shot? What if this whole thing was an elaborate ruse, with Desmond playing along long enough to make it seem as if he’d devoted sufficient attention to the trial before unceremoniously terminating it?
“I…don’t think he does,” Kerrick said. He seemed relieved, as if he’d worked out Alastair’s other question and was glad he didn’t have to tell him once again to keep his nose where it belonged. “I believe when your father came to speak with him, it was the first time they had formally met. Although I’m sure they’ve encountered each other at various functions over the years.”
“I suppose it would be hard not to.” Alastair’s father had been adamant about not allowing him access to the practical aspects of magic too young, but he couldn’t help picking up a working familiarity with the way British magical society operated. For the most part, the power was concentrated in a few old families, along with a smattering of unaffiliated but highly talented individuals. No formal structure or governing body, but definitely a meritocracy as far as prestige went. Orion Stone had to be somewhere near the top, and William Desmond was clearly even higher.
That still hadn’t answered Alastair’s question, though, and he was sure Kerrick knew it. He waited.
For a few beats, Kerrick tried to wait him out. Then, as if realizing it wouldn’t work, he sighed and spread his hands. “Sir, I would never presume to speculate about Mr. Desmond’s motives. As I mentioned before—if he agreed to give you a trial, he must have seen something in you that he found worthwhile. If you’re worried that this is some sort of sham arrangement cooked up by Mr. Desmond and your father, I can give you reasonable assurance that it isn’t the case.”
Alastair couldn’t help looking startled that Kerrick had zeroed in so quickly on his fear. Was the man withholding the truth about some magical talent he might possess, at least enough to let him view auras as well?
“I’ve been in Mr. Desmond’s employ for many years,” Kerrick continued. “And one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that he never does anything he doesn’t wish to do. Certainly not regarding his apprentices, who are of utmost importance to him. He can’t be coerced, bribed, begged, or otherwise compelled to accept anyone he doesn’t deem worthy of his time. So you can rest assured, Mr. Stone—if you’re here, you’ve got the potential.”
Alastair nodded. It was a relief to know—at least as much as Kerrick could know, anyway, since he was sure Desmond didn’t tell even his most loyal manservant everything—that he wasn’t here under false pretenses. But he hadn’t really believed that anyway. He knew he had the chops, or at least the potential for them. But… “I suppose you won’t be answering my other question, then. The on
e about why it’s been so long since Mr. Desmond’s taken an apprentice.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Partly at least because I don’t entirely know myself. And if you’ll accept another bit of unsolicited advice: I suggest you don’t ask him. At least not until after you’ve passed your trial.”
Alastair chuckled. “I’ve worked that one out on my own, I think.”
Kerrick’s easy smile, which had made itself scarce for most of the meal, returned. “Right, then. Good to hear. If you’re finished with dinner, shall we go meet the staff?”
Their first stop was the kitchen. Kerrick took Alastair through the back door of the dining room and into a shining, spotless space full of substantial, old-fashioned appliances and granite surfaces. Alastair was surprised at its size at first, but then remembered the table in the dining room: this place looked fully capable of managing a formal meal big enough to feed everyone seated there, with some left over.
A man and a woman, both dressed in crisp chef’s whites, bustled around checking on the contents of pots, peering into the oven, and chopping vegetables. They looked up as Kerrick and Alastair entered.
“Esteban and Gretchen, this is Alastair Stone. He’s Mr. Desmond’s new apprentice. Mr. Stone, this is Esteban, our head chef, and Gretchen, his assistant.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Alastair said.
“You are very young,” Esteban said. He looked Alastair over, then glanced at Kerrick. “He is an apprentice?”
“He is,” Kerrick said firmly.
While the two of them spoke, Alastair took the opportunity to clear his mind and once again shift his perceptions to the magical realm. Gretchen’s aura was a vibrant yellow-orange, similar in composition and brightness to Kerrick’s. Esteban’s, on the other hand, was dimmer, its yellow-green clouded in a few spots. Alastair blinked, thinking he was losing his hold on the sight, but while the spots shifted around a bit, they didn’t disappear.