by Stanzin
CHAPTER 10
The Blooding
Coffer Street had lost its gloom. The white shrouds and scaffolding were gone. People scurried around busily, determined to enjoy Sunday.
Gregory though, in Foulting’s Alchemics, was not having a good time.
‘Hello, I’m looking for a beginner’s Alchemy Set,’ he began, trying to sound as innocuous as possible.
‘Preppie at the Caverns, is it?’ the shopkeeper said without looking up. ‘I’ll be right with you.’
Gregory held his breath – he might just get away this time.
‘That’ll be one, two and three, yes? Here you go then… hold on…’
Gregory’s hopes plummeted.
‘We’re in a bit of a hurry,’ he tried valiantly.
‘Aren’t you…?’
‘Not at all! Alchemy sets to go, please!’
‘Milord! I’ve been waiting for you!’
‘Of course you have,’ Gregory said bitterly.
‘You’re such a baby dramatic,’ Mango said, cuffing his head.
‘And Milady!’ Foulting said, realising who Mango was.
‘Wrong again,’ Gregory muttered, but he had to admit that Mango was taking it a lot better than he was.
The proprietor rushed out from behind his counter and shook both their hands vigorously and at the same time. Behind him, Johanna and Zach exchanged looks and giggled.
‘What an honour, what an absolute honour – you won’t pay for a single thing in my shop – I knew you would come soon, and I’ve got my best kits ready for you! Whatever you need – it’s on the house!’
‘Absolutely not!’
‘I insist!’
‘I insist harder! I’m going to pay!’
‘Never, milord! My nephew – the two of you saved him – we can never repay you.’
‘It was the only thing to do Mr. Foulting,’ said Mango. ‘How about if we accept your offer this once, on the promise that you let us pay next time?’
Thus mollified, Foulting allowed them to leave with some of his best crystal alchemy sets. Gregory bought three extra, regular sets; the others looked at him oddly, but did not say anything. It was the third shop they had visited that morning, and Gregory and Mango hadn’t spent a single Krona on their school supplies.
‘You know,’ Gregory said as he walked out, ‘I’m going to figure out the names and families of every midget we saved that day and then I’m going to avoid them forever.’
‘Be nice,’ Mango said.
‘You be quiet. You’re enjoying all the attention,’ Gregory growled.
Mango cuffed his head. ‘Don’t tell me to be quiet. You ought to enjoy it. It isn’t going to be like this forever.’
‘I don’t have to be happy about it.’
‘Yeah, don’t be. This is hilarious,’ Zach said.
‘Ingrate! You’re making out just fine on this too.’
It was true. Mr. Foulting had pressed Zach into accepting a free set of his own. Johanna got a gift as well – an enchanting cylindrical lamp that shone bright light dispersed by a flowing stream of water.
‘Can you blame a peasant for the good fortune he enjoys in such august company as yourself? At least he didn’t have a book ready for you to sign like the other two.’
‘I’m beginning to see why your friends the other day were ready to kick your butt – maybe I ought to finish what they started.’
‘Aaah, your hallowed boots - my heinie, it’s not worhty, mil – ach!’ Zach danced away from Gregory’s foot. ‘You know, I thought you’d have gotten relaxed about this by now. You survived an entire horde of parents, didn’t you?’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Gregory said grimly.
‘Jo, tell your cousin he’s being a baby,’ Mango prompted.
‘You’re a baby.’
‘And this from someone who I just bought a whole stack of books,’ Gregory sobbed. ‘Ingrates – the lot of you!’
‘You didn’t have to buy all of this right now,’ Zach said. ‘We’re not starting actual classes till September.’
‘By which time I’ll be an official Hero, and everyone’s only going to be more stupid about it,’ Gregory said, and shook his leg.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ Johanna asked.
‘Doing what?’
‘Twitching your leg.’
‘I’m not twitching my leg.’
‘You really are being very twitchy,’ Mango said. ‘You’ve been doing it all morning.’
Gregory was twitchy. He felt incredibly uncomfortable and exposed, and had felt that way since he’d slid over to the street in the morning. He was sure that every eye on the street was on him. It was the weight in his pocket, where something jangled with a horrible clamor.
That morning, he had been thunderstruck when Uncle Quincy had shoved the pouch of golden coins at him. ‘What’s this?’ Gregory had asked warily.
‘Fifty Caesars. Your shopping allowance,’ Uncle Quincy had said.
‘What do you want me to buy, a country?’ Gregory had laughed. They’d spoken of an allowance, but this was ridiculous.
‘No, your school supplies,’ Uncle Quincy had said.
‘I can’t take this,’ Gregory had said, his chuckles replaced by a strangled choke.
‘It’s yours, whether you want it or not. It’s from your parent’s vaults,’ said Uncle Quincy.
‘I’ll be killed the second I step out,’ Gregory had said. Fifty Caesars. That would be enough to… anything, back at the Village. He doubted the Earl had ever had fifty Caesars altogether and he kept his wealth buried under solid stone.
Gregory had tried to imagine himself walking freely in broad daylight with the terrible clinking of coins in his pocket, and was flooded with visions of hidden knives, poisons and other more colorful scenarios which ended with his corpse finally, and thankfully, if belatedly, lighter of coins.
He’d put his hands firmly into his pockets.
‘Take your hands out of your pockets, it’s a sloppy habit. And don’t be ridiculous, no one’s going to kill you,’ Uncle Quincy had said.
So Gregory had reluctantly put the pouch of gold into his own pocket.
Admittedly, no one had tried to kill him so far this morning.
He shook himself. He was getting a treasure-load of magical tools and trinkets! That was the important thing. He already had four Runecrafting kits (wood, which was cheaper than stone); four heavy Alchemy sets; and four basic Sorcery Circles.
Uncle Quincy had warned him against buying spell-books, and despite the sting, it made sense.
‘You know how if you take a kid to a candy shop and he starts crying because he knows there’s no way he can have everything even if he goes on eating forever?’ Uncle Quincy had said. ‘Same rules apply here. You simply don’t have an idea of what sort of magic to explore yet. There’s so much that your brain will overheat just trying to choose. Wait till you’re past your prep school before you think of branching out.’
Gregory didn’t mind waiting much at all – they had just entered the white-and-green marble Toohey and Toohey Make Instruments – and he was in love.
Instruments hung off every rod, leaned on every wall, decorated ever corner of the shop. Wands, rods, and staves; rings, bracelets, gloves, and claws; necklaces and pendants; knives and swords; hammers, maces, axes and scythes; shields and armour; flutes and harps; spears and lances; whips, nunchucks, flails and morning stars – anything and everything could be an instrument.
And at the centre of it, behind a massive green marble desk, someone sat obscured by a newspaper.
‘Excuse me?’ Gregory said, unashamed of the reverence in his voice.
Two identical heads emerged from two sides of the paper; they had wispy white hair, thin lips, squinty eyes, and papery skin.
‘I believe those are our young Heroes,’ said the left head.
‘Two scrawny specimens, dear. You owe me,’ said the right.
‘They get more and more insignificant every year,
’ said the left.
‘Go on then. Pick your instruments,’ the right head said to them.
Zach and Mango were already at it, but Gregory approached the desk instead.
‘You’re both Toohey?’ he asked.
‘I am Mister, and she is Miss,’ said the left head. ‘You don’t want an instrument?’
‘I do,’ Gregory said, and presented them with the enchanted belt he had received among his gifts. ‘Can you make this into an instrument?’
The paper folded up and tucked itself out of sight. Only one thing told Mister Toohey apart from Miss Toohey – their lips, for hers wore bright red. They unfolded out of their chair to a towering height, then leaned down till their noses were an inch from Gregory’s belt.
‘Oho! Do you recognise this one?,’ said Mister Toohey
‘Thirty years since we last saw it, and still so beautiful. Shall we get started?’ said Miss Toohey, slamming a massive grimoire down onto the table.
‘Yes.’ Gregory had never been so impatient to get started with something in his life.
Mister Toohey spread out a chart.
‘Your name,’ barked Mister Toohey suddenly. ‘Date of birth, place of birth.’
And so it went, a dozen questions in rapid fire, which a startled but fascinated Gregory answered as best as he could: like the time he was accustomed to waking every morning, what sort of pets he’d kept, or how often he got into fights and why. It was horribly intimate in some ways, yet the old couple couldn’t have cared less. Mister and Miss Toohey muttered, consulted the grimoire, frowned, consulted the grimoire, nodded, and used their wands to draw curious lines and figures, which swarmed over chart, settling into their places.
‘Favorite color?’ Miss Toohey snapped finally.
‘Green.’
The whole thing had taken ten minutes.
‘That was to know your Ethic – to make sure that you and your instrument understood each other. The closer your personalities, the more easily you’ll grow together,’ Mister Toohey rasped.
An image of a cocky, talking belt flashed through Gregory’s mind, and he decided he couldn’t let this pass by, never mind if he sounded stupid.
‘My instrument will have personality?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Your personality,’ they said together and didn’t comment any further on that. ‘Now you’ve already got your form – what a beautiful belt.’
‘Practically anything can be made into an instrument, provided the item is well crafted and strong,’ said Miss Toohey.
‘Most of those who call themselves instrumentalists prefer to focus on blood runecraft,’ said Mister Toohey.
They made swift adjustments to the belt as they spoke, their fingers so sure and nimble that Gregory couldn’t even start to understand what they’d started to do before it was already done.
‘They leave the forging to others, and buy dead material from half baked merchants who have little idea of the extent of intimacy that can be achieved between the instrument and the magic it channels,’ said Miss Toohey.
‘Second rate charmers who churn out feeble imitations simply because they’re allowed to,’ said Mister Toohey.
‘Here, every instrument was forged by our own hands, or the hands of our ancestors, and our hands shall charm them when they are bought,’ said Miss Toohey.
‘We imbibe the magic into the very making of these things, it makes them almost indestructible,’ said Mister Toohey.
They seemed to passing an invisible ball between each other, recognizing the others’ turn to speak, almost as if chanting a hymn of initiation.
‘And while we’d usually recommend letting us build you an instrument from scratch, this belt was made by our great-great-great-great-great grandfather,’ Mister Toohey said.
‘Impeccable work,’ Miss Toohey said, and then, abruptly, ‘We’re done.’
Gregory’s reverent hands held up his instrument-to-be. It was not complete; the Blooding would do that, but he thought he had never seen something quite as beautiful.
He was not done, though. From the displays he picked up a hornbeam stave, a deadly-looking knife, and a amber-bejewelled ring. The Tooheys raised their eyebrows, but did not comment as Gregory forked over twenty-five Caesars, feeling giddy as he counted out enough money to last him two lifetimes in Pencier.
Gregory waited as Zach and Mango customised their own instruments; a simple ring for him, and studded fighting gloves for her.
Shopping over, they crossed by bridge over to the Slice, a six hundred-metre long island in the middle of Fate. A cobblestoned path wound around its centre, which was lined with food stalls and huts of every imaginable cuisine.
Zach and Mango though, were done keeping quiet; not even the shawarmas they tucked into deterred them.
‘Ok, what gives with four of everything?’ Mango asked.
‘Are you trying to open up your own school?’ Zach said.
‘They’re for my friends back at the orphanage,’ Gregory answered, looking back at them steadily.
Mango and Zach exchanges startled looks, but Johanna spoke next:
‘Don’t they need to be in school to learn?’ she said, ‘And they have to blood their instruments.’
‘The Director will blood their instrument – I’ll ask him to,’ Gregory said, his jaw set. ‘And they’ll learn just fine without the school, because I’m going to write down every lesson and send it to them every week.’
Mango and Zach exchanged stunned glances again.
‘That’s…’ Mango began, but dropped her eyes at the challenge in Gregory’s face.
‘… really, really cool, Gregory,’ Zach said. ‘You think it will work? They’ll learn?’
‘They’re the cleverest people I know,’ Gregory boasted. ‘I’m going to post their stuff soon as I get home.’
‘Will they freak out?’ Zach asked, grinning.
‘Bet on it!’
‘That’s really thoughtful of you, Greg,’ Mango said warmly. Then she looked melancholy. ‘It’s hard to remember people if they aren’t around all the time… but we should.’
‘Who are you supposed to remember?’ Gregory asked.
‘Well, it’s stupid… and I haven’t seen him in years – six years, I think – but my Uncle Rafi’s in Helika.’
Zach’s immediately looked stricken. ‘Oh… that’s really hard.’
‘The last time he was here, I’d promised I’d write to him every month… and I did. For a whole year, I wrote to him twice a month. And he wrote back. Then one month I forgot to write him… and I went on forgetting to write him. When I next thought of him, it had been two years since we exchanged letters.’
Mango shrugged miserably. ‘So I went on forgetting.’
‘But you can write to him now!’ Gregory protested. ‘Why are you so upset?’
‘Mate, he’s in Helika,’ Zach said.
‘Ummm….’
‘The Empire is in lockdown!’
‘Right, of course. And this happened on…’
‘A week ago! Where have you been… oh, right. You’ve been out of it. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Gregory shrugged and turned to Mango. ‘I still don’t understand.’
‘The Empire may be in lockdown, but people are getting letters out somehow. A few letters from Falstead Refugee Camp made it to The Seraphic… they published them this morning…camp life is not pretty. I don’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to say… that it’s really cool, what you’re doing for your friends.’
That evening, Johanna showed him how to post parcels; it was just like hailing a carpet. She pulled an innocuous lever in the hall, and somewhere above them a red balloon floated up, tethered to a string. Minutes later a man uniformed in blue and gold zoomed in on a carpet, took the parcels and zoomed right away, without exchanging a word.
‘Don’t I have to pay?’ Gregory asked, flummoxed.
‘They’ll bill us at the end of the month,’ Johanna said.
What would the their faces look like, when the Director handed them their parcels? Gregory’s glee stayed with him all through Sunday and into Monday morning, when, hours before his blooding, he could barely sit still at breakfast.
‘You’re going to shake yourself apart,’ Uncle Marcus said affectionately, rapping Gregory’s nervous knee for the umpteenth time.
Gregory’s nervous energy touched Johanna too; she fussed about him as if he was an important dignitary, making sure his hair was neat, and his clothes spotless and his back straight. She had dressed regally in gold and flowing reds.
‘A Blooding is quite formal,’ Uncle Marcus said, in response to Gregory’s amusement at his cousin’s zeal. ‘But in Domremy, it’s also a family event. Every young new mage’s family will be there, and Jo wants us looking sharp.’
Gregory obligingly let Johanna bully him all the way to school; she’d rap his shoulder if he dared to slouch.
The Gurukul Caverns now rubble-free, looked grand. The outer great stone stairway was resplendent with fires, flowers and fountains; over a hundred people milled about, picking fruits and finger-food off tables; smartly dressed prefects handed out moss-green ceremonial robes – Gregory received and put on his own.
‘There he is! Greg!’
Gregory barely finished turning before Mango and Zach dragged him off to meet their parents.
Ferdinand Zeppelin’s luxuriant moustache and grave eyes were crowned by the shiniest bald pate Gregory had ever seen. ‘I’m honoured that a you chose to enter Domremy on an airship of mine,’ he rumbled.
‘I’ve wanted to fly in one ever since I first heard of them,’ Gregory said fervently. ‘They’re the greatest things ever.’
‘Ferdie is as big a fan of you as you seem to be of him,’ Augusta Lovelace said, smiling. She had Zach’s eyes, set in a beautiful, heart-shaped face. ‘Though Zach said you thought my little toys were impressive too.’
‘They are,’ Gregory said. ‘Have you got shops outside Domremy yet?’
‘Soon enough,’ Augusta Lovelace said.
‘Good. Don’t listen to any idiot who complains. Your shooters are going to change the world,’ Gregory promised.
‘You’re very sweet.’
‘Mother, Greg. Greg, Mother,’ Mango said, dragging forward a statuesque, older version of her.
Ophelia Piper batted aside Gregory’s proffered hand and embraced him. ‘Thank you, Gregory Grey,’ she whispered.
The prefects herded the students into lines, family to the back, and a tall and smartly dressed pair, boy and girl, addressed them.
‘I’m Harvey Heidemann, Head Boy at Gurukul Caverns. Beside me is Stella Suihua, Head Girl. The Prefecture and we run the school, overseen by the Headmistress Renata Eavesdmother. Outside of these walls, she is your Queen; but in here, she is your teacher. She will welcome you to magehood – she will blood your instruments. The professors will introduce themselves to you at the start of term, a month from now.’
Harvey Heidemann stepped back; Stella Suihua stepped forward.
‘For the next month, you will undergo Preparatory. You must get used to your magic. The Headmistress herself will guide you during this time. At then end of August, you shall be divided into your houses. There are four – Fenrir, Felix, Phoenix and Phorcys. The division is done by Auction. Depending on your performance this coming month, and on your interview in the last week of August, the four houses will bid for you, and you will go to the highest bidding house. Once you’re in, you will earn or lose points for your house. The points accumulated through the year are important – they make up your House’s currency for the next year’s Auctions. Lose your house too many points, and you may find yourself ostracised.’
Harvey Heidemann stepped forward again.
‘Parents, please follow me to the viewing gallery. Mages, Stella will show you around the Cavern now. Follow her.’
The stately girl led them into the Cavern mouth; with a start, Gregory realised the inside walls were glowing, lit by some luminescence. It looked nothing like the tunnel of horror from Gregory’s memories. Otherworldly frescoes and murals covered every inch of the walls; Gregory thought he recognised a few of the characters drawn.
Rediscovering the Caverns entranced him. He and Mango exchanged knowing glances as they passed sights at one familiar and unfamiliar. Before he knew it, they stood at the foot of the grand stairway that led into the Bell.
Gregory’s mind hiccoughed. He had just remembered something rather important.
‘Your parent’s have likely been seated,’ Stella Suihua said. ‘We have no time to visit the Library, but you’ll soon be spending more time there than you ever wanted to. Wait here and do not wander off. You will all be called in any second.’
As soon as she entered the bell, Gregory moved as innocuously as he could to the rear of the grand stairway, where another grand set of stairs descended into the library. A great stone mural stretched from the floor of the landing to the ceiling. Stuffed into the narrow space between the carving and the stone wall were his parent’s records; he’d shoved them in there two weeks ago, only seconds before running off to investigate screams that he shouldn’t have run off investigate.
He peered into the space – the thick folders were still there. He reached for them, trying hard not to look too suspicious or obvious. To his dismay, he couldn’t get his wrist through the gap! Try as he might, he could not do better than brush the folders with his fingertips.
‘Mages, it’s time!’
Stella Suihua was back. Gregory reluctantly rejoined his classmates-to-be, and in a single file, they trooped up the hall and into the Dome of the Caverns.
Gregory forgot to be annoyed with himself.
The Dome was vast. In its centre, a ring of water encircled a stone dais; the churning water that sparkled with its own intense light. Headmistress Renata Eavesmother stood in the ring, on the other side of a pillared fountain with a basin in it. Inky darkness shrouded the walls of the Dome, from where the parents watched. Stella Suihua lined them up outside the ring.
‘There are fewer of you today,’ the Headmistress said, ‘than there has been for more than two hundred years. I am grateful to the good fortunes that brought you here. To say that Domremy suffered a great loss two weeks ago is arrogant and selfish. We share our grief with the world.
‘Tumultuous times lie ahead. A worldwide religious and political unrest grips us; we are exploring the nature of the universe on a scale unprecedented in history; technologies that could challenge the very structure of our societies have been developed; partisan boundaries of every kind are trembling, weakening; a great revolution approaches – it is not cultural or national, but a spiritual revolution of all humankind. Our past identities shall crumble and new ones will have to be forged. We can either fight this current, or journey on it. The former will break us; the latter will lead us to transcendence.
‘We share something else with the world – our fear. Nothing in our history ever hinted that magic could fail us, that our Wills could be reduced to our bodies. We cannot imagine what living in a world bereft of magic might look like. Perhaps we are too terrified to try. We cannot yet explain the Voidmark, though we are trying.
‘Whether it was the wrath of gods or a fault of nature, one thing is clear – we can never again be complacent of or comfortable in our mastery of magic, not when it is so easily lost. If the Voidmark showed us anything at all, it is that we are slaves to magic, not masters.
‘That, young mages, is the world that welcomes you today. The Gurukul family is as old as Domremy itself. It is entwined into the nation’s spirit and culture. Its alumni are pioneers and world-changer
s. You will join that family today, blessed by your family, by Domremy and by all those who came before you. The six years you spend here will transform your very essence, but before you begin on this journey, I wish to share a thought that you must carry within your minds and hearts.
‘This family is founded on two very simple morals. The first moral directs you to create value. In all work, endeavour or relationship, seek to enrich everyone and everything you come across. Ensure that you are enriched in turn. The second value directs you to do no harm. Hurt no one and waste no resources. If you are ever in conflict, meditate on these values, for they are Gurukul’s most successful.
‘Welcome to Gurukul. The Blooding will now begin.’
The Queen brandished a deadly looking black knife. Reggie, Alf and Mixer should have been here, Gregory thought, feeling he’d explode if he got even a smidgen more excited.
‘Adelaide of Villeneuv, be blooded now,’ she said.
A girl stepped upto the fountain and trembling, held out her right hand; she put her wand into the fountain: the Headmistress cut swiftly; they all heard her sharp gasp: and then she let her blood drip onto her instrument. The Headmistress uttered a spell Gregory could not understand; Adelaide reached into the fountain and staggered: she cried out, and it was done. She was led away into a room to the right, quite unsteady on her feet.
‘Bevelle West, be blooded now.’
The tall girl reacted exactly as Adelaide had. Why had they both stumbled out of the room?
‘Carrie Robidoux, be blooded now.’
‘Damien Kulash, be blooded now.’
‘Eric Monk, be blooded now.’
‘Farah, daughter of Hamill, be blooded now.’
‘Gregory Grey, be blooded now.’
Gregory stepped up to Headmistress Renata Eavesmother. Her gaze was warm and appraising; Gregory stiffened his back and stood as straight as he could manage. He placed the priceless belt into the fountain: he extended his right hand, palm up; under it, the fountain’s glowing water was still and unmoving. He held her gaze: the knife flashed; he did not feel the cut, only the wet warmth of blood on his skin: the fountain’s water turned red.
The Headmistress chanted her unknowable words: the redness receded from the water as the belt soaked it up: the water turned clear once more: Gregory reached into the fountain: he felt the cut on his palm knit and heal: for a second, the belt seemed to move in his hand.
Gregory’s magic woke.
It is painful; the world is harsh and intense: Gregory shuts his eyes; it does not help: it is like a sharp noise during a headache, bright sunlight after darkness, chilli on his tongue, a pinching of his skin or the scent of burning sulphur in his nose.
Mana, the sixth sense.
It hurts, he knows, because it is raw and new. When it hurts less, he is surprised to find himself already removed from the Dome. He is in an anteroom, where those who came before him are giggling, sunk into beanbags, heads lolling. Gregory staggers: someone helps him collapse into his own beanbag. His mind and balance crest and fall repeatedly, each cycle more intense than the last, till he thinks he may go insane with giddy delight. For a second, fear strikes – not even magic is worth insanity – but by and by his sentience trickles back to him, quicker as he forces himself to focus.
Gregory wrenches his eyes open. The room has filled up with more of the freshly blooded. The cut is a pale scar across his palm, like the one he had always envied on the Bobbin, and on the Director, and on the Mayor, and on the blacksmith’s apprentice, and on Astrid.
Mage, it says.
Stella Suihua steps into the room with another of the freshly blooded. When she leaves, Gregory forces himself to his feet; there is a plaque on the room’s wall, and words are forming on it: names. Black ink twists and forms into yet another one: Susannah Coffey. With a start, he realises they are the names of the new mages, his classmates at Gurukul. He reads, though it’s hard to focus; the words seem to slip and slide around his vision:
Adelaide from Villeneuv… Bevelle West… Carrie Robidoux… Damien Kulash… Eric Monk… he gives up. His mind stumbles, and then swims again, pleasantly.
‘Wow.’
‘Woah,’ Zach agrees.
‘Whew,’ Mango echoes.
Their messages are in his head before their voices are in his ear. He can sense them; it is like touching, but more enmeshed.
‘Is it like this all the time? How do people… even… talk?’ Mango wonders aloud.
‘I know, right? Can you hear me?’ Zach asks.
‘Yes. Yes, I totally can!’ Mango says, giggling.
‘Hear me in your head?’
‘In my head,’ Mango and Gregory say together.
Similar conversations sound in all corners of the room. Good feelings saturate the space. Every new mage is its own sphere of euphoria. No people elsewhere in the world could be more delightful than the ones in this room. Mango and Zach seem especially radiant, warm, creamy and tuneful.
‘Why are we all speaking like idiots?’ Zach giggled.
‘Maybe it’s the magic. We can think straight – only straight. Mum said so. Can’t think bendy,’ Mango giggled.
‘Bendy… haha.’
‘Eh-heh-heh.’
‘How long are they going to keep us in here?’ Gregory asks.
‘Till we can speak normally, I think,’ Mango says.
‘You speak just fine,’ Gregory tells her warmly.
‘Thank you.’
‘Show me your hand.’
They compare the scars that mark a mage.
‘… no pain. No pain at all…’
‘… doesn’t hurt. Didn’t feel a thing…’
But Gregory is distracted. A thought flits about his mind, something someone said: they were being kept in here until they were less silly. Why is that important? What does it mean? He tries to focus. If he is expected to stay in here, then he is not expected to be found outside… no one would look for him outside. What is outside? A stone mural, between the floor of the Bell and the ceiling of the Library – his parent’s records are hidden behind it.
Gregory wanders out of the antechamber.
The corridors are empty. A murmur fills the air; it comes from the filled galleries above. Gregory follows the Dome’s curve, easily ducking into shadows when he hears footsteps, emerging once it’s silent. Minutes later he stands beside the mural.
There is nothing behind it. His parent’s records have vanished.