by R. L. King
Eyes on the prize—that was what it was all about.
He didn’t think Desmond had told Selby about their conversation. He continued avoiding the assistant steward whenever possible, directing his non-magical requests to Kerrick. Selby, for his part, made himself scarce most of the time when Alastair was around, appearing only when something was required of him and leaving as soon as it was finished. On the few occasions they were required to briefly interact, he was scrupulously polite and courteous. Alastair noticed a few faint twitches in his aura indicating that he might feel otherwise, but feelings were irrelevant. The guy didn’t have to like him to do a good job.
He thought about Madeleine Hill more than he wanted to. It wasn’t a problem—despite the fun he’d had talking with her during their afternoon in Wexley, he was pleased to discover that magic remained his first priority. He’d been a little concerned about that, after seeing a few boys with promising futures at Barrow brought down by relationships with girls they’d met in town or during events with other schools. Since he’d had very little experience in that area, he sometimes worried he wouldn’t be immune if he should ever meet someone he fancied enough to take his mind off his studies.
But no, the memory of his afternoon with Madeleine remained in a pleasant corner of his mind, something to pull up when he was alone or just needed to be reminded there was a real, normal world out there that he’d be returning to someday. But such thoughts eventually and inevitably drifted back toward the latest magical techniques he was trying to master. He considered it a fair balance, especially since Desmond hadn’t commented on it.
On the first day of his final week of probation, Desmond waved him toward the familiar high-backed wooden chair at the end of their morning session. “You have one more week to go in your probationary period, Mr. Stone.”
As if he hadn’t been keeping track of the days! “Yes, sir. I know.”
As was his habit, Desmond began pacing the room. “Tell me—how do you think you are performing?”
Alastair froze. It seemed a simple question, but all he could picture was a field of landmines, or a room full of rocking chairs and nervous, long-tailed cats. He had no idea how Desmond expected him to respond.
Desmond stopped in front of him. “There is no wrong answer, Mr. Stone. It’s not a test. I merely want your self-evaluation. You’ve been here three weeks now, you’ve had a good taste of my methods of instruction and the sort of life you’ll have if we formalize our situation, and I suspect you’ve entertained a few thoughts about your performance. I want to know what you think.”
Alastair swallowed. It occurred to him that never, not once during the entire three weeks he’d been at Caventhorne, had he ever seen William Desmond smile. He wondered if the man was even capable of it. “Er—” he began, angry with himself at how tentative he sounded. You’re supposed to be an adult, damn it. Act like one! “Well, I think I’ve done a fairly good job mastering the techniques you’ve taught me. Except invisibility,” he added quickly, in the interest of fairness.
“Indeed. I would not be too concerned about your failure to grasp the nuances of invisibility. As I told you before, every mage has areas of strength and weakness.”
Alastair thought about asking what Desmond’s areas of weakness were, but decided not to. Instead he said, “I think I’ve settled in here well enough, and I’ve been keeping up with the assignments you’ve been giving me.”
“Quite true. I must admit, I’ve been impressed at your devotion to your work. There have been times when I’ve assigned you more than I thought you could handle, and each time you’ve proven that you were up to the task.”
“Thank you, sir.” Don’t get yourself excited. Just stay calm.
“However,” Desmond added, his expression growing more severe, “you must remember that during your probationary period, you have not been required to pursue your mundane studies except to keep up with your current workload on your own. If you remain in my apprenticeship, your father will provide you with a tutor who will conduct your mundane lessons during the part of the day when you are not studying with me. That will put yet another demand on your limited free time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If—and I emphasize again, it is still if at this point—I do accept you as my apprentice, our studies will increase in difficulty, requiring more outside work on your part. This will be in addition to whatever homework your mundane tutor assigns you. You might be fortunate to find an hour or two during the week when your time is your own. Do you understand that, and are you willing to accept it?”
Alastair hardly dared to breathe. Despite Desmond’s talk about “if,” it certainly sounded to him like the man was well on his way to making up his mind. “Of course, sir. I knew that was the way it would be going in.”
Desmond once again held his gaze for several long, uncomfortable seconds. His eyes were the pale blue of ice, intense and probing. Alastair was sure his teacher was studying his aura, but not for the first time he wondered if Desmond really had worked out a way to read minds.
Eventually, Desmond nodded once. “All right, then. I will be away for the rest of the day and will return late tomorrow afternoon, so our remaining session today and the one tomorrow morning will be cancelled. Spend as much time as you deem necessary working on our current techniques, your mundane assignments, and tidying the workroom. You may have the evening off if you wish. I will see you tomorrow afternoon at the usual time.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Alastair headed for the door, making sure he was fully turned away from Desmond before he allowed himself to grin.
For the rest of the day, nothing seemed difficult to him. He grabbed a quick lunch and went back down to the workroom for a few hours to focus on his current magical techniques, then spent two more in his bedroom catching up on his mundane reading. He had to fight a bit to keep his mind from wandering, but he treated it as a challenge and used meditation to compartmentalize the elation he felt at Desmond’s words this morning.
He was going to make it!
He was sure of it now. Desmond was clearly pleased with his efforts and his diligence. Apparently, his innate talent was strong enough, and his study habits had passed his master’s stringent standards. He rolled onto his back on his bed, idly levitating three of his schoolbooks in a magical imitation of juggling, and smiled. A week from now, he’d officially be William Desmond’s apprentice—and the youngest apprentice anybody he knew, including Desmond himself, had ever heard of. In four years he’d be a fully qualified mage, ready to start University when most of his peers were barely a year into their apprenticeships.
He wondered what his father would say when he found out. Surely he’d be proud. Alastair remembered the day back home when his father had told him he’d be studying with Desmond. Orion Stone was not generous with praise, and that simple “well done” had sustained Alastair far more than a whole batch of effusive compliments from more emotionally demonstrative instructors back at Barrow.
And perhaps not best of all—the sheer joy of learning magic was the best, no denying it—but still important: he wouldn’t let the family down. He would be the sixth in that unbroken line of Stone mages.
He let his breath out in a satisfied sigh and lowered the books into a neat stack on his nightstand. That was all for later, though. First, he had to get through this last week of probation, and four grueling years of apprenticeship.
But for now…he’d finished everything Desmond had told him to do. He’d practiced the new techniques until he had them down, and actually read ahead in his mundane books. He’d tidied up the workroom until it shone, making use of the extra jolt of energy he’d gotten from Desmond’s words.
He glanced at his watch: it was a little after five o’clock. He had the evening ahead of him, and nothing he was required to do.
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br /> He rolled over on the bed and opened his nightstand drawer. Inside, next to a couple more books and a notepad, lay the scrap of paper Madeleine Hill had given him back in Wexley. The one with her phone number on it.
Should he do it? Would she even want to see him again? Was it wise to pursue something he couldn’t maintain, and was it even fair to Madeleine to try? He knew, once he started his true apprenticeship, he wouldn’t have time for her, or any girl.
The thought gave him a twinge of regret, but it was true. Desmond hadn’t hidden anything from him, and one or two hours’ free time at unpredictable intervals wasn’t enough to keep a proper relationship going. Not to mention he couldn’t afford to let his concentration get fragmented. He wasn’t naïve: he was a fifteen-year-old boy, complete with the same raging urges nearly every fifteen-year-old boy in the history of time had to deal with. It was difficult enough to ignore them when he didn’t even have any female friends his own age, let alone someone who could potentially develop into more.
He wasn’t sure if it was even true anyway, or just wishful thinking—he barely knew her, and as far as he knew she could already have a boyfriend. Maybe she’d considered their afternoon together to be nothing more than a bit of harmless fun, and she’d laugh in his face if he suggested there might have been more to it than that.
Then again, she had kissed him. On the cheek, not the lips, but still. A kiss was a kiss.
He sat up and grabbed the slip of paper. Tonight, perhaps for the last time in a long while, he was free. He was going to take full advantage of it. If she laughed at him, it was probably for the best anyway. At least then he’d know for sure.
But if she didn’t…
His bedroom didn’t have a telephone, so he found an empty guest room that did, ducked inside, and locked the door. This would be hard enough without Selby popping in on him in the middle of the conversation.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone. With more than a bit of wry amusement, he realized he was facing this simple call with more trepidation than he had all the techniques he’d been studying with Desmond.
Learning magic? Pfft, easy-peasy. Trying to satisfy a taskmaster instructor who never gave you any feedback? No problem. Keeping up with a rigorous mundane workload on top of a full slate of magical training at the same time? Bring it on.
Calling a girl he barely knew and asking her out?
Basically terrifying.
It was after five. Maybe she’d already had dinner. Coffee, perhaps, or ice cream? Did they even have an ice cream shop in Wexley? Another trip to the cinema? The only other film playing was some romantic comedy thing he’d ignored in favor of the horror show. But girls liked romantic comedies, right?
She’s probably busy anyway. She probably has loads of guys asking her out.
He pulled the slip with her number on it from his pocket and put it on the table. Just do it, you prat. She’s not going to bite you. He thought of Selby, and what he might say if he found out—especially about his nervousness. He could practically picture the sly grin and hear the drawling, deceptively courteous comments.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, and snatched up the phone. Before he lost his nerve, he punched in the number and settled back to wait.
It rang three times, then picked up. “’Lo?” It sounded like a young boy, maybe ten or so.
Great. Now he had to get past the gatekeeper. “Yes. Er. Is Madeleine there?”
“Who’s callin’?”
“Alastair Stone.”
“Who?”
“Alastair Stone,” he repeated more slowly, suddenly thinking this had been a bad idea.
“I don’t think Maddy knows no Al-ster Stone,” the voice said dubiously.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll ring back lat—”
There was the sound of a scuffle, muffled voices, and then Madeleine was on the line. “Ali. Hi! How are you?”
“I’m good.” He hoped he’d managed to sound casual.
“I didn’t think you’d call,” she said. “Sorry about Charlie—he’s a twerp.”
She sounded a little shy, which surprised him. Could she be nervous too? She’d seemed so confident before. Oddly, her hesitation emboldened him, driving off the last vestiges of his own nervousness. “The ghosts have let me off for the night. I was wondering—well, if you’d like to go somewhere with me this evening. If you’re not busy, I mean. Dinner, or coffee, or the cinema or something?”
The pause was long enough he began to fear she was looking for a polite way to decline, but then: “Yeah, I’d like that. I’d have to ask Dad, though. And I’ve already had dinner—had it at the shop after I got off work.”
“What about a film, then?”
“That would be great. Already saw the horror one, but there’s another one. Some romantic thing. Probably bore you to death, though.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Do you want to?”
“Sure. Sounds like fun. Let me ask Dad. Hold on.”
She disappeared for several moments, then returned. “He says it’s fine as long as I’m home by ten. School night.”
“Brilliant. Shall I come by your place, or meet you there?”
“Meet me,” she said. “At seven, okay? I’ll have Dad drop me off, and you can walk me home after.”
“It’s a plan.”
“See you then,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice as she hung up.
He waited a few minutes to calm down before heading downstairs. Once again, he dreaded running into Selby, especially now that he knew the assistant steward could probably read auras. He’d be sure to notice something and comment on it, and Alastair didn’t feel inclined to mess up his good mood by dealing with that.
Selby was nowhere to be found, though, as he reached the ground floor and hurried off in search of Kerrick. He found him in one of the sitting rooms, reading a newspaper.
“Oh, hello, sir,” Kerrick said with a smile, looking up. “Haven’t seen much of you today. Mr. Desmond got you busy while he’s gone?”
Alastair nodded. “All day, but he’s given me the evening off. I’m going into town for a bit—just thought I’d let someone know in case I’m needed for anything.”
Kerrick’s smile widened. “Good to see you getting in a little time to yourself. That’s something you’ll need to learn to do if Mr. Desmond takes you on. You’ll work like a dog, but you still need a bit of relaxation.”
Alastair noticed Kerrick didn’t ask where he was going or what he’d be doing in town. He could get to like this whole ‘responsibility’ thing—back at Barrow, leaving the school was a big deal requiring permission slips, along with careful reporting of where you’d be, who you’d be with, and when you’d be back. And that was only for the older students. Even when he was home for holidays, he had to report his comings and goings to Aubrey.
“Do you need a ride?” Kerrick asked.
He hadn’t thought about that. Last time he’d gone into Wexley he’d been running, but it wouldn’t do to show up coated with sweat. He couldn’t exactly take Madeleine to a movie wearing a tracksuit, anyway, and walking would be too slow. “Mr. Desmond said someone around here might have a bicycle I could borrow…”
“Are you sure I can’t give you a ride, sir? It’s no trouble, I assure you.”
“No, thanks—I’m not sure when I’ll be coming back, and I don’t want to wake anyone up.”
Kerrick put down his paper, thought a moment, and then smiled, raising a finger. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Give me a moment to check something—I might have just the thing.”
Alastair pulled up in front of the cinema an hour later, which was twenty minutes before he was supposed to meet Madeleine. That was all right, though—it would give him time to get collecte
d, and perhaps convince himself he had no reason to be so nervous. She was just a girl. An attractive girl who seemed to fancy him, but that was all. They’d have a pleasant evening together and that would be that.
He had to admit the little green Vespa scooter Kerrick had talked one of the groundskeepers into lending him was much better than a bicycle, or walking. It had taken him a few minutes of instruction to get the hang of riding it, but by the time he zipped off down the road toward the gate, the scooter’s owner was no longer casting dubious looks at him and wincing every time he hit the brakes.
He liked the thing, he decided as he parked it under a streetlight a few doors down from the cinema entrance. Maybe after he passed his probation, he’d ask his father if he could have one of his own. He rarely asked for material things since he didn’t care much about them in general, but his father had never turned down a reasonable request.
Madeleine showed up at five minutes to seven, as Alastair loitered outside the cinema house studying the movie posters. “Hi!” she called, coming up behind him.
He turned. “Hi.” She was dressed casually, in a sky-blue, scoop-neck T-shirt, faded jeans, and boots, which made him glad he hadn’t shown up in a suit. He still felt overdressed in a button-down long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves turned up and the most casual pair of trousers he’d dared bring along, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Still, he caught her looking him up and down.
“Sorry,” he said, indicating his outfit. “Mr. Desmond isn’t much for jeans. He thinks they’re vulgar or something. Had to leave all the good stuff at home.”