by R. L. King
“Back home by supper!” boomed the same voice Alastair remembered calling to her when he’d left the first time.
“C’mon,” Madeleine said, waving him toward the door. “Before he finds something else that needs washing up. Works me like a slave, he does.” She rolled her eyes to indicate she wasn’t serious.
Alastair followed her outside, and she set off with a confident stride down the street. “They’ll be at the park in a half-hour or so. You been to the park yet?”
“No. This is the first time I’ve been to town, actually.” He fell into step next to her, his long strides easily keeping up. It felt good to talk to someone who didn’t expect anything of him.
“They don’t let you out much.”
“Well—I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. They keep me fairly busy.”
“The ghosts?”
“Them too.”
She glanced at him. “So…what exactly are you doing up there? Everything I’ve heard from the people who get hired on for parties and dinners and such say that the place is huge and posh and old-fashioned, but they’ve never said anything about anybody our age being there.”
“I’m the first.”
“So it’s not some sort of Professor Xavier’s School or something, then?”
He chuckled. “No. Nothing like that. It would be a lot more fun if it were.”
“No mutant powers? You aren’t suddenly going to fly off, or shoot laser beams out of your eyes or anything, are you?”
“Not today.” But you’re closer than you think, he thought with amusement. Despite the ease at which he’d caught on to it, he could hardly call his minimal grasp of the levitation spell “flying,” and to his disappointment Desmond had still shown no sign of teaching him any offensive magic. But perhaps magical ability was some sort of mutation. He’d never thought about it that way before. “Maybe in a few more weeks—if I’m still here.”
“Why wouldn’t you still be here? Are you leaving?”
“Don’t know.” He followed her as she turned on one of the side lanes he hadn’t investigated on his earlier meanderings; not far ahead, the houses soon began to give way to open fields.
“How can you not know?”
“I’m sort of—on probation. I’m being tested to see if I’ve got enough of what my teacher is looking for that he’ll take me on permanently.”
“Sounds stressful. So, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have enough of what he’s looking for.”
“I guess I’ll find out in the next two weeks.”
“So you don’t know?”
He pondered. “I think I do,” he said after a few moments. “But there’s no way to know for sure, because I’m not entirely certain what he’s looking for.”
“That’s weird,” she said, regarding him critically. “So what is it you’re supposed to be learning? Are you one of those types who ends up going to University years before anybody else because you’re too bright for regular school?”
“Sort of,” he admitted. “I can’t tell you exactly what it is. I guess the best way to explain it is…a combination of maths and a lot of research.” The thought almost made him chuckle—that was a pretty accurate description of the kind of magic he and Desmond practiced. “And a bit of art too, I guess.”
She tilted her head. “You’re an odd bloke, Alastair Stone.”
“I suppose I am. It’s probably from spending all that time with the ghosts.”
“You know,” she said, stopping and fixing him with her wide, green-eyed gaze, “I almost believe you—or at least believe you think so. Which I suppose could make you mental.” She grinned. “Cute, though, so I’ll give you a chance. As long as you’re a harmless sort of mental, and not some kind of axe murderer. Are you an axe murderer?”
Alastair made a show of checking his pockets. “Sorry—left my axe in my other trousers.”
“You are mental,” she said, laughing. Before he could reply, she started off again. “So you find out in two weeks if you’re staying.”
“At the latest, yeah. If I wash out, it will be sooner.”
They arrived at the park, a wide expanse of grassy land heavily dotted with trees and split by meandering dirt paths. Off in the distance, several figures were kicking a ball around on a football pitch while others lounged along the sidelines. “Well, you’re here now,” she said. “Let’s go meet the others.”
Given his choice, Alastair would have preferred spending the next hour or so walking and chatting with Madeleine alone, and not just because he liked being around her. Large groups of people—especially people he had next to nothing in common with, beyond approximate age—made him uncomfortable. He’d never been any good at small talk, and his unusual upbringing meant he hadn’t had much experience interacting with mixed groups of teenagers.
To his relief, Madeleine didn’t mention anything about ghosts or weird old houses or brainiacs when she introduced him to her friends. All she said was that he was new to the area, visiting, and might be staying but wasn’t sure yet. The others—a collection of boys and girls ranging from around fourteen to seventeen—greeted him cheerfully and then went back to their conversations. Madeleine waved him over to a bench and sat down to watch the football match, which consisted of a bunch of guys and a few girls. “See, they don’t bite. Sure you don’t want to play? I’m sure you could sub in.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I’m not kidding—I’m rubbish at football. They made us play at my old school, and the teams used to fight over who had to take me.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You don’t look like one of those blokes who trips over his own feet.”
“Let’s keep up that delusion, shall we?”
They settled back to watch the match for a while, though Alastair wasn’t really paying attention to it. He was acutely conscious of Madeleine sitting next to him on the small bench, her warm, jeans-clad leg touching his. To stave off the sorts of thoughts he didn’t want to have right now, he shifted to magical sight and watched the auras of the football players as they chased the ball back and forth across the pitch.
The auras formed a riot of bright, pulsing colors—blues, greens, golds, purples. He didn’t spot any double-colored ones like his and Desmond’s, though he did notice traces of red around many of those that weren’t red to start with. It didn’t surprise him. Get a bunch of passionate teenagers together, and of course emotions would run high. Desmond had taught him to spot the telltale signs.
He switched his attention the sidelines, scanning the group sitting on the grass or on other benches as they watched. The colors were more subdued here, still bright and pulsing but not as intense as those playing the game. Madeleine’s aura was a brilliant, cheery yellow. Part of him had been convinced she was somehow having him on, encouraging him because it amused her. Some teenage girls were like that—even though he hadn’t encountered many, he was well aware of the reality. But no, she seemed to be exactly what she presented herself as. He relaxed a little, letting himself savor this pleasant afternoon while it lasted. Soon enough he’d have to head back to Caventhorne and get back to his studies—he might as well enjoy this while he could.
He was about to switch off magical sight when something caught his eye, off to his right. He glanced over toward it.
A girl was walking by along the path off to the side of the pitch. He couldn’t get a good look at her from where he sat, but she was of medium height and more voluptuously built than Madeleine, with long hair tied back in a ponytail.
If Alastair had merely spotted her walking by, he’d barely have noticed her; it was her aura that had caught his attention. Pale orange and close to her body, it flared in spots with reds and shifting dark areas. He thought back to Esteban and the medical issue he’d spotted in the ch
ef’s aura, but these dark spots weren’t like what he’d seen then. They were larger, more diffuse, more integrated with the whole than interlopers.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Madeleine asked.
“Oh—er—sorry.” He nodded at the girl, who’d drawn closer as she continued by. He could see her better now: plain and pale, with dark hair and a shapeless sweater over her jeans. He noticed she cast a couple of nervous glances toward the pitch and increased her speed as she passed it. “Do you know that girl?”
“Who?” She followed his gaze with her own and her expression clouded. “Oh. Yeah. That’s Rosemary Cooper. Why?”
He shrugged. “She just looks…off, I guess. Upset about something.”
“Could be.” She stared into her lap. “She’s an odd one, Rosemary. Nice enough, I guess, but…a bit strange, you know? I think she might be a little slow. Doesn’t go to normal school with the rest of us. She comes into the chip shop with her mum sometimes.”
From the pitch, a couple of the boys yelled catcalls at the girl. She flinched, her body stiffening as she picked up her pace once again.
“Oi! Leave her alone, you lot!” Madeleine called at them. They laughed and returned to their game.
Alastair watched Rosemary Cooper until her path took her out of sight. He’d never seen an aura like hers, and wondered if it had something to do with her being “strange” or “slow.” He supposed it was none of his concern, though he thought it was rude of the boys to harass her. He turned back around and returned his attention to the game.
The players didn’t appear terribly interested in things like scores or strict adherence to the rules—the game seemed more like an excuse for everyone to hang out together and have some laughs than anything else. They kept going for the next hour, swapping players with the spectators on the sidelines whenever someone felt like stepping out. Even Madeleine went in a couple times. She tried to encourage Alastair to have a go, but he assured her everybody present would be better off if he just played the role of spectator. In truth, he was exaggerating his ineptitude considerably—with his long legs and agility, football was one of the few sports he could probably be decent at if he cared enough to bother with it. But he was certain if he tried it now, this would be the time he tripped over an air molecule and faceplanted into the turf right in front of Madeleine. Best not to risk it.
The game broke up shortly after the field lights switched on, and everybody began shouting goodbyes and filtering off to go home for dinner or get ready for evening activities.
“Sure you can’t stick around?” Madeleine asked as they headed out of the park behind a pack of laughing, shoving boys. “Later tonight, a group of us are going to the cinema. They’re playing this horror film: They Eat Your Brain.”
The offer was tempting, even though he’d already watched the same film earlier that day. Desmond wouldn’t be back until late tonight at the earliest, and he doubted anyone else at Caventhorne would care if he didn’t show up for dinner. But still, this was a path he probably shouldn’t venture too far down, for his own good. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to get back. The ghosts will miss me, and they get up to all sorts of mischief when they get cross.” He gave her what he hoped was a charming grin.
She punched him lightly on the arm. “You know, you’re not bad for a posh, mental bloke,” she said, returning the grin. “You’ll come back, though, right?”
“I will. If I’m allowed.” He had no idea when Desmond would give him a break again.
“You tell those ghosts I’m coming up there to have words with them if they don’t let you out.”
“I’ll pass that along.” He paused, suddenly awkward. “Thanks for introducing me around—I had a great time.”
Her grin sparkled. “Me too. Oh! Let me give you my number, if you want to ring me up—assuming they have telephones up at that old place.” She fished in her little bag, scribbled something on a scrap of paper and offered it to him.
“Thanks.” He put it in his pocket where he wouldn’t lose it, realizing with some embarrassment that he had no idea what the telephone number at Caventhorne was.
Before he could react further, she leaned in and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek. “See you ’round, Ali.” Then she gave him another light arm punch and took off after the crowd of boys, back toward town.
For several seconds he stood there, watching them go. He didn’t put his hand to his cheek where she’d kissed him, sure that if he did she’d turn around at that exact moment and see. But he could feel the spot warming nonetheless.
He set off at a jog back toward Caventhorne, his mind far away. He barely noticed the scenery.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By the time he arrived at Caventhorne’s gates, it was almost seven p.m. and already fully dark. He jogged up the road toward the house, the damp chill in the air cutting through his light running gear. If he hurried, he might have time for a quick shower before he completely missed the dinner hour. He wondered if Desmond was back yet—he wasn’t terribly hungry, so maybe he could get away with skipping dinner, or just grabbing something from the kitchen later. The shower sounded better anyway.
As he rounded the last bend before reaching the house, he was surprised to notice a faint glow coming from the wooded area off to his right. He wasn’t sure what was over there—so far, the only parts of the estate he’d had time to visit were the house itself and the large freestanding building that served as both a garage and a workshop/storage area for the groundskeepers. Whatever this was, it was neither of those.
What could it be? Was there another building over there? Perhaps the groundskeepers were performing some late-night maintenance, or a vehicle was there with its headlights on. On a whim, he shifted to magical sight.
Immediately, another odd-looking light punctuated the glow—not steady this time, but flickering, sort of like a fluorescent bulb before it failed. And instead of white, this one had a distinct purple hue.
Purple light didn’t usually mean maintenance, or a vehicle. Curious now, he veered off the path and headed toward the glow. Desmond had never told him he couldn’t explore the grounds—only that he couldn’t use magic to conceal himself or spy on the staff. Whatever this was, either it was authorized and whoever was doing it wouldn’t mind him investigating, or it wasn’t, in which case he should inform Desmond or Kerrick about it so something could be done.
He switched off magical sight and slowed his pace as he entered the forested area off the road, not wanting to give himself away by tripping over a root or running into something. Out here with the overhanging branches blocking out the moonlight, the only illumination came from the faint white light he’d originally spotted, barely bright enough to see through the trees and certainly not enough to navigate by. Alastair wondered when Desmond would teach him a light spell—it would have come in handy now.
A hundred feet or so in, the thick forest opened into a small clearing. A rustic little house, hardly bigger than a large shed, sat in the center, with a neat path leading off to the right and disappearing into the trees. Alastair paused at the edge, trying to figure out the purpose of the house. The curtains were drawn, but it was clear that, whatever the light was, it was coming from inside.
What was going on in there?
Ever since he was a small boy, Alastair had suffered from an excess of curiosity. He’d been the sort of child who tried the patience of most adults—too clever for his own good, preferring the company of older people to those his own age, and seeing no reason why he shouldn’t ask about things he wanted to know. He’d annoyed far more than one nanny, instructor, or random adult who grew tired of responding to his barrages of questions. Eventually he’d learned to temper that curiosity as he grew older, but only in the sense that he toned down his questions and did his best to hunt up the answers in books before seeking out experts. But one thing
had not changed over the years: he’d never met a mystery or puzzle he didn’t have to solve.
In other words, he could no more have walked away from the strange, flickering purple lights in the little house than he could have turned his back on his magical studies.
He crept forward, approaching the house while trying to stay out of sight of the window in case whoever was inside happened to glance up and spot him approaching. When he reached the edge of the house, he glanced back to make sure nobody was sneaking up behind him. Then, still crouched below the level of the window, he sidled over, lifted his head just high enough that he could see through a small break in the curtains, and shifted back to magical sight.
For a moment, he couldn’t make out what was going on inside. A single, shadowy figure moved around, occasionally bending down to adjust something below Alastair’s line of sight. Its aura was hard to make out against the flickering purple light, which also seemed to be going on near the floor.
Cautiously, he raised himself up a little more so he could look down at whatever it was. When it came into view, it startled him so much he nearly lost his balance and fell against the house. He caught himself at the last moment before toppling, using one hand to brace himself while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on what he’d seen.
Whoever was inside the little building, they’d constructed a magical circle on the floor. Alastair couldn’t see it well enough to recognize its purpose, but the basics were obvious and unmistakable: carefully drawn sigils, lit candles, glowing crystals placed at various points around the outer perimeter. The purple flickers danced from one crystal to another, casting eerie patterns on the bare walls.
As far as he could see, the circle was of a low power level, carefully constructed but simplistic, and not even at the level of the one he’d done back at Barrow. But it was still a magical circle, and that wasn’t the sort of thing he’d expect to see in a remote outbuilding in the middle of Desmond’s estate on a random Saturday night. Especially not when Desmond was away.