The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I’d be surprised if you could,” Uncle Ira said. He studied me, thoughtfully. “You’re nowhere near that advanced, not yet. A few more years of practice and then … maybe. We shall see.”

  I looked down. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “But you will get there eventually,” he added. Behind me, the door opened. “Ah, Morag. Please take Isabella back to her room, then give her some food. She can have tomorrow off.”

  “As you wish, Senior,” Morag said. She sniffed in disapproval as she helped me to my feet and half-carried me towards the door. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  I forced my legs to work properly as we stumbled down the corridor, eventually managing to stand up without assistance. Morag watched me through expressionless eyes, her face so blank that I couldn’t tell if she was amused or concerned or merely annoyed with having to help get me back to my room again. I wanted to ask her if she knew what Uncle Ira was doing, but I suspected she wouldn’t tell me even if she did know. Instead, I promised myself that I’d start going through the books again as soon as possible. There had to be some clues about what Uncle Ira was trying to do.

  “You need to rest, apparently,” Morag said, when we reached my room and stepped through the door. “And perhaps you can spend part of tomorrow cleaning up your room.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed, without the slightest intention of doing anything. I could kick the handful of dirty clothes into a basket and take them down to the washroom tonight, if I wished. The duvet had been changed yesterday, but the old one probably needed to be washed. If I knew Morag, she’d saved it for me. “Or I could go out with my friend.”

  Morag snorted. “Watch your back,” she said. “No one else is going to watch it for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Your uncle gave you another potion?”

  I nodded from where I sat on the tree stump, watching Callam carefully hoist the logs into the branches for the next treehouse. I’d offered to levitate them up for him, but he’d insisted on doing it himself. Akin had been much the same, when he’d started to forge. He’d wanted to do everything he could without help from anyone else, even me. Father had encouraged him to be as independent as possible.

  “Yeah,” I said. The brief surge of power - real power - felt like a dream. “And it … it gave me power.”

  An odd expression flittered over Callam’s face. It vanished before I could put a name to it.

  “Isabella,” he said. “Are these … are these potions safe?”

  “… Probably not,” I admitted. “Normally, potions are tested thoroughly before someone is asked to drink them.”

  “Then what exactly is he doing, giving them to you now?” Callam clambered down the tree and walked over to me. “Is he trying to kill you?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But … he’s clearly up to something.”

  Callam frowned. “What?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “But …”

  I looked down at my hands. I didn’t know what to do. I’d given Uncle Ira my word that I’d do anything and … and he was feeding me experimental potions. He might not want to kill me - there were plenty of easier ways to kill me - but a single misjudgement might leave him with a dead body and a great many explanations to make. There were limits, if Father was to be believed, about how far potions could be tested before someone drank them. Uncle Ira could take every precaution in the book and still accidentally kill me.

  And I don’t even know if I can leave, I thought. Uncle Ira hadn’t touched the bag I’d concealed in the cottage - I didn’t know if he’d thought to ask me about escape plans or not while I’d been under the influence - but the wards were strong. Callam had admitted that he couldn’t get in or out through the river any longer. I might be unable to leave if I wanted to.

  “The first potion boosts your power to the point where you lose control,” Callam said, nodding to the scorch marks on the ground. “The second knocks you out, right? And the third gives you a more controlled power boost.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Uncle Ira was clearly experimenting with ways to boost magic. And yet, everything I’d learnt about magic insisted that there were no shortcuts. A person who wanted to be a strong magician had to work at it. Even someone born with a great deal of raw talent - like Rose - needed to hone their skills or they’d be tied up in knots by someone who actually knew what they were doing. “He’s clearly getting close to something.”

  I sucked in my breath, coming to a grim resolution. “I think it’s time I found out what.”

  Callam gave me a sharp look. “How do you plan to do that?”

  “He told me that I wasn’t allowed to go onto the sixth floor,” I said, remembering the first instructions Uncle Ira had given me. “I think I need to find out what he’s doing up there.”

  I shivered, despite myself. A magician’s lab was his own private space. Invading it, whatever the intention, was a serious breach of etiquette. Uncle Ira would have every right to be angry at me, if he caught me sneaking through his wards. And yet … I looked at my hands, feeling an odd ache burning below the skin. Uncle Ira would keep testing his potions on me until he either managed to stabilise the brew or accidentally killed me. I needed to know what he was doing.

  Callam jumped to his feet. “I can come with you …”

  “No,” I said. “If he catches you up there, he’ll kill you.”

  “Are you sure he won’t kill you?” Callam started to pace. “If he’s up to something that would worry your family …”

  I hesitated, unsure. Uncle Ira was very definitely up to something that would worry my family. If I hadn’t known that when I’d seen the books on the Dark Arts, I’d have known it the moment he forced me to drink the first potion. Experimenting with the Dark Arts alone would be enough to condemn Uncle Ira to death. He might manage to talk his way out of it - he’d certainly survived whatever had got him sent into exile - but I doubted it. The family was not secure, not now. They’d have to come down on Uncle Ira as hard as they could.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He might lock me in my room, but I don’t think he’d actually kill me. He seems to need me for something.”

  “Be careful, alright?” Callam sat down next to me. “Do you want me to wait outside?”

  “I’ll go tomorrow morning,” I said. “Uncle Ira doesn’t wake up until noon.”

  I tried to spend the rest of the afternoon having fun, but it wasn’t easy. Fear was gnawing at my heart as I finally bid farewell to Callam and headed back to the hall. I’d told Callam that I wasn’t in any real danger, but I didn’t believe it. Uncle Ira would have every right to do whatever he wanted to me, if he caught me in his lab. Magicians guarded their secrets carefully. I’d heard horror stories about intruders who’d been cursed multiple times before they’d finally been handed over to the City Guard.

  There was no sign of Uncle Ira at dinner, so Morag and I ate in silence before I finally walked back up the stairs and stopped on the fifth floor. I could feel the wards above me, their sheer power pulsing through the air. Cat was supposed to have forged something that actually let her see the wards, but I had to rely on my senses … which meant reaching out, very gingerly, to feel out the magic. The wards snapped and snarled at me, suggesting they were designed to attack anyone who even brushed against them. A skilled wardbreaker could probably have taken them down, but I didn’t know where to begin. Even looking closer might draw their attention.

  And there are no other ways up to the sixth floor, I thought, as I checked the other stairwells as carefully as I could. Uncle Ira had sealed them all, layering wards upon wards until the sixth floor was practically inaccessible to anyone without the right permissions. I gritted my teeth in frustration as I checked the fireplaces, wondering if I could clamber up to the sixth floor. But they appeared to be sealed too. What am I supposed to do?

  A hundred wild schemes ran through my head as I made my slow way back to my room, ranging from the impossible to
the completely impossible. I didn’t have a sample of Uncle Ira’s blood, so I couldn’t trick the wards into thinking I was him; I didn’t have a compeller of my own, so I couldn’t force Morag to take me up to the sixth floor. I wasn’t even sure Morag had access to the sixth floor. Uncle Ira might have been reluctant to let her anywhere near his workplace.

  I entered my room and sat down on the bed, feeling despondent. I wanted - I needed - to know what he was doing, yet I couldn’t get into his lab. Father would probably have been able to bring down the wards - and Cat could have forged a wardbreaker that shattered everything - but me? I couldn’t even begin to sneak through the wards, let alone dismantle them. Uncle Ira was certainly not going to give me a tour. It seemed hopeless.

  Rain splattered against the window. I rose and walked over to the glass, peering out into the darkness. No light glimmered in the grounds, nothing to suggest there were any habitations within a hundred miles. I looked up at the ceiling, wondering bitterly if I could simply cut through the wood and climb up to the next floor. But it seemed unlikely …

  I stopped, dead, as a thought occurred to me. What if I climbed up the outside of the hall and entered through a window?

  It seemed impossible, yet - once I’d had it - the thought refused to go away. Uncle Ira had plenty of reason to secure the stairwells and the fireplaces, but what about the windows? We were five stories above the ground. If Uncle Ira had copied the protections from the family hall, there would be charms on the ground floor to deter anyone from trying to climb up, but nothing higher. Why should there be? No one could get to an upper floor window to climb out without passing through the wards on the ground floor.

  I lay back in bed and closed my eyes, trying to think of everything that could go wrong and devise a counter. Uncle Ira might have charmed the windows, in which case I would have to cast a levitation spell before I hit the ground or I’d be dead. Would the charms on the windows alert him if they repelled an intruder? I doubted it - there were so many birds around that there would be hundreds of false alarms - but what if I was wrong? What if …?

  My eyes jerked open. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. I sat upright, splashed water on my face and checked the clock. It was nearly seven o’clock. Morag wouldn’t be moving around for at least another couple of hours. I changed into a new shirt, then walked over to the window and forced the catch open. Cold air blew into the room as I stuck my head out and peered upwards. The walls were pitted with plenty of hand and footholds, but I cast a pair of protective spells anyway. I didn’t want to fall to my death.

  I hesitated, feeling my heart starting to pound with fear, then slowly inched my way onto the ledge. The whole idea had seemed much more practical in the middle of the night, before I’d actually had to put it into practice. Now … the wind blew against me as I started to scramble up, feeling my way from handhold to handhold. I shivered, helplessly. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the upper floor window and not look down. I couldn’t help noticing that the windows had been tinted to make it impossible to peer through them. A chill ran through me as I reached the sixth floor. Uncle Ira might not have forgotten the windows after all.

  But he can’t have expected someone to try climbing up from one of the lower windows, I told myself. Anyone who could get into the hall without permission might be able to get through his wards without needing to climb.

  The thought hung in my mind, taunting me, as I started to fiddle with the window. If I couldn’t get it open … the wind blew stronger, droplets of rain hanging on the air, as I finally managed to force the window to open. A handful of minor charms snapped at me, but I froze them before they could throw me away from the window and out into the open air. I tensed, half-expecting my spells to set off alarms, but nothing happened. Unless, of course, the alarm was silent …

  You’re committed now, I thought. Hurry!

  I pushed the window open and crawled inside, unsure what to expect. A table, a chair … there was nothing, save for a short drop to the floor. I slid down, catching myself on my hands and looked around as I pulled myself to my feet. The air was heavy with wards, although I couldn’t tell what they actually did. A shiver ran down my spine, again, as I realised when I’d last seen such wards. Father used them in his potions lab.

  This has to be a storage room, I thought. What is he doing here?

  My eyes swept the shelves. The walls were lined with ingredients, ranging from the common to the extraordinary. Uncle Ira had never told me he had a stockpile of dragon scales! I gave them a wide berth, all too aware that dragon scales could react badly if someone even looked at them funny. I vaguely recalled a rumour about Cat trying an experiment with dragon scales, an experiment that had ended badly. I’d been too busy sniggering over how close she’d come to being kicked out of school to pick up the details. In hindsight, I really should have paid closer attention. But I’d been too foolish to care.

  I dismissed the thought with an exasperated snort and made my way slowly to the door. It was locked, but only with a simple physical lock. I frowned and carefully checked for traps, then muttered a spell to open the door. It clicked open without hesitation, revealing a corridor that was surprisingly - astonishingly - clean. Uncle Ira must have cleaned it carefully when he moved into the hall, then placed charms to keep it clean. I wondered, as I inched my way down the hall, why he hadn’t bothered to do the same for the rest of the building. It wasn’t as if it would have taken much time.

  Maybe he just didn’t want his potions lab contaminated, I thought, as I reached the next door and checked the lock. Dust in the wrong place could easily cause an explosion.

  The lock puzzled me for a long moment. It was another physical design, rather than a locking charm. It nagged at my mind before I decided that Uncle Ira knew that his wards would keep out intruders. Anyone who could get through the wards wouldn’t be deterred by a simple locking charm. I braced myself, then unlocked the door. It opened into a large research lab. The walls were lined with books, some protected behind powerful wards; the desks and tables were covered in notes. A diagram of the human body lay on the nearest table, a handful of notes scribbled beside it. I peered down at the diagram, frowning at just how much attention Uncle Ira had paid to the spine. A shiver ran through me as I remembered that Uncle Ira had been very interested in my spine. There were arrows on the diagram pointing to five places on the spine.

  What is this? I was baffled. I could understand him being concerned for my health, or my magic, but the spine? It made no sense. And what does it have to do with the potion?

  I pushed the thought aside as I slipped away from the diagram and walked over to check the other tables. A large notebook lay open in front of me, filled with notes written in Uncle Ira’s spidery handwriting. I forced myself to decipher his words, one by one. A potions recipe - with half the ingredients referred to by codenames - and a set of notes. It took me longer than it should have done to realise that the notes referred to me.

  This is what he forced me to drink, I realised, as I read the notes. Uncle Ira was clearly pleased with himself. The potion had been a success, at least to some extent. But what does it do? What is it intended to do?

  I read further and found the answer. The potion was designed to boost magical power, at least for a short period. I checked backwards and found a dozen different variants on the same recipe; the base instructions were identical, but the quantities of encoded ingredients varied wildly. Uncle Ira seemed to believe that one potion - I guessed it was the one he’d forced me to drink - had had too much of one ingredient and too little of another. The second potion wasn’t balanced at all, while the third …

  He thinks he found something, I thought. He had found something, I thought. But what is he doing?

  I forced myself to think as I scanned the recipe, trying to figure out what the encoded ingredients actually were. A potion to boost magic … I knew families who would pay through the nose for a booster potion that actually worked. I gritted my
teeth as I read through the notes, including a line about the potion probably being indirectly addictive. A user might not become dependent on the potion, but they would do anything to have the power again and again …

  Shaking my head, I glanced through the remaining papers. They consisted of potions recipes, a handful of observations on the nature of magic and ghosts … and a series of notes, mainly concerning me. There was no one else who fitted the description, as far as I knew. Uncle Ira had monitored my magic, measured my development and primed his potions to match. I was torn between horror and an odd kind of awe. Uncle Ira had indeed pushed his research into new territory. I wondered, grimly, if he’d experimented on Morag too. Or if she was his partner in crime. The notes suggested that Uncle Ira had experimented on others, but he’d found the results unsatisfactory.

  I reminded myself, grimly, that I couldn’t stay here forever and forced myself to check the next room. The door was completely unlocked. It was a massive potions storehouse, lined with hundreds of bottles and vials, all carefully marked with Uncle Ira’s handwriting. I glanced over them, noting the existence of a handful of other enhancement potions and a handful of vials filled with blood, then hurried to the next room and opened the door …

  … And stopped dead in absolute horror.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  For a long moment, I literally could not move.

  Cold horror held me frozen as I stared into the room. It was a chamber of nightmares. It was … I realised, dully, that it was a slaughterhouse. The walls and floor were splattered with human blood. The stench was unbelievable. A body lay face-down on a table in the centre of the room, wrapped in a preservation spell … someone had cut into the body’s back and started to remove the spine. I forced myself, somehow, to walk closer and peer into the wound. Uncle Ira - it had to be Uncle Ira - was dissecting the body. I felt my gorge rise and swallowed, hard. It was all I could do to keep looking.