The Last Wizard

by Jane M. R.

  Crisy produces her violin and begins to play. Unlike me, she is actually trying to make a good impression for young men looking to wed. Ever since Crisy’s mother was killed when she was “thrown” from her horse – according to Brocen who was the only one with her at the time – five years ago, Crisy had fallen into music to chase away the gloomy days. But ever since her mention of Durain’s death a month after Brocen’s intense dislike for him (likely because Durain knew of the secret Brocen kept on him), I am willing to accuse Brocen of killing his wife, too.

  Brocen comes home shortly afterward, and apparently drawn into the drawing room by the violin, he opens the door. I don’t think I imagine the jolt of shock cross his sun-tanned face as he sees me.

  “Father!” Crisy stops playing. “Brinella is staying overnight. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Maybe I did imagine the shock on his face because it immediately softens into a monstrous smile. “It is a pleasure, Miss Frondaren.” And he leaves the room before I can look over his body again.

  I’ve never had a female friend so I’m not sure if my disgust toward Crisy wanting to show off all her dresses once we are in her room is actually founded.

  Blessedly, darkness comes and Crisy declares she is ready for bed. Crisy’s macramist unties Crisy’s dress first and then mine. There comes a knock on the door.

  Crisy puts on a robe while the macramist continues to untie me and goes to the door where I hear mumblings of, “Goodnight,” before the door closes. I wait, but I don’t hear the familiar click of the lock that always accompanies my own door this time of night.

  “Did he not lock the door?” I ask.

  Crisy scatters her curls as she shakes her head. “I don’t have a bell pull rigged up in my room like you probably do in yours in case something goes wrong in the night so he just settles with locking the front door and window, so you are still safe.”

  I wish I could tell her the locked door and window wasn’t for keeping people out.

  I was prepared to climb out of Crisy’s window and find a way back into the house but I’ll count this luck as a sign that maybe it’s not a sin to be creeping about a stranger’s house at night.

  The macramist slides the bed warmer beneath the sheets on Crisy’s bed and my cot set up next to it before we scuttle under them before they cool. The macramist leaves and I have to fight sleep while Crisy snores away (I would disagree that Durain was the one with horrible night habits), dreading what I came here to do. Despite growing up as a “Fae child” as people commonly call free spirits like me, that did not prepare me to spy on a man considered family while he sleeps and then steal something from him… from off him.

  I don’t move from terror for two hours, my heart sunk so deep in my chest it is pushing on my lungs so it is hard to breath. I have to threaten myself that Durain’s soul will haunt me if I don’t complete the task he started, and only when the thought of him haunting me scares me more than spying on Not Uncle Brocen do I get out of bed.

  The cold air nips at my bare toes and I am sad that my bed will be equally as cold when I come back.

  Crisy is sleeping heavily – still snoring, which is loud enough to cover the whispering sounds of my tip toeing across the room and turning the knob on the door.

  The house is small enough that I don’t have to guess for very long which room belongs to Brocen. It’s dark but my eyes adjust well enough to avoid running into the table and bench in the hallway. I stop in front of his door and my courage flees. I swallow sudden nervous bile in my throat.

  I don’t move for what has to be ten minutes, unable to continue, unable to back down. Stuck in limbo. In front of Brocen’s bedroom door.

  What if he wakes up and catches me? What if he kills me like I think he killed his wife and Durain?

  I begin pacing in the hallway, holding my body which has started to shiver. No. I’ve got to do this. Durain thought it was important to risk his life, and so I will not let his death be in vain.

  Somewhat emboldened, I press downward on the metal handle of his bedroom door. Smoothly, the door opens. I step inside and close it again, trapping my courage in with me before it has time to run out. Though now my courage huddles on the floor, reaching for the handle. I only hope it will stay quiet.

  A shuffling of sheets freezes me and I don’t move, not even to lift my head. Only when the shuffling stops and I count twenty rapid heartbeats do I look up. Brocen is facing me now but his eyes remain closed.

  I tip toe across the rug to the foot of his bed. I crouch down and both of my knees pop loudly.

  Brocen shifts again and I hold my breath, tempted to run out of here before he can guess who it was and what they were doing in his room because I have no idea what kind of excuse there might be as to why I’m creeping about his room in the middle of the night.

  It occurs to me too late that he might sleep naked. I’ll never be able to look at him the same ever ever ever again.

  Heat flares through me so I am almost too hot for my nightgown. Brocen shifts again and continues to shift until the bed groans and Brocen throws the covers back.

  I’m going to throw up. Not sure if it’s going to happen before or after I die.

  But Brocen doesn’t appear above me. I dare a look and see him standing with his back to me in the corner utilizing the chamber pot. I release an almost audible relief of air. He’s wearing enough clothing that I would still be able to barely manage looking him in the eye in a regular conversation, though my face is so hot that he is going to feel the heat when he comes back to bed.

  And then I realize he’s going to see me when he turns around.

  I scramble under the bed. It’s a tight fit but I’m small enough. I have to be small enough. I’m just afraid he’s going to hear the hammers beating inside my heart. There’s enough space between the bed skirt and floor that I’m able to look out at him with one eye. I’m so tired. What time is it? He turns around, thankfully having tucked things away before he did so.

  It’s not until Brocen lays back in bed and throws the covers over him that I realize I had been staring at his muscular, half naked body the whole time, partially entranced.

  I would have slapped myself if I had enough room under the bed to do so.

  After I waddle through the distracting thoughts of his good looking physic and from what I remember in the dim light, I’m able to conclude that I didn’t see anything on him that might alert me to Durain’s secret.

  As his breathing shifts back into the lulls of sleep, I’m so weighed down with shame and disappointment that I don’t realize I fell asleep until I wake up with a jolt and smack the back of my head against the bottom of the bed.

  Brocen mumbles in his sleep and shifts around before falling quiet, punctuated only with snores.

  I’ve left a spot of drool on his rug and I have no idea how long I’ve been there. It’s still dark outside so maybe not that long. With some lethargy drained of both fear and courage, I creep out from beneath the bed. I look blearily around in the dim light, considering opening all his drawers. Maybe he keeps it in a drawer while he is sleeping.

  I’m not going to push my luck. I leave his room.

  Finally secured under my cold blankets, I stare at the dark ceiling, confused and angry at all these half clues even though I know Durain did it to protect my identity in case his killers found it.

  I wake up with a staccato pounding of disappointment in my chest. But the pounding continues and I realize it’s someone knocking on the door. I pull the covers over my head. It’s Brocen and he wants to talk to me about last night.

  “Come in,” Crisy moans, and I hope she didn’t say it in her sleep.

  “Good morning, Crisandra!” It’s the macramist. Lenia, I learned yesterday. At least I can take some comfort knowing I didn’t catch the macramist and Brocen in the same bed. I don’t know if I could hold a secret like that and not tell anyone about it.

  Crisy tosses the covers aside and stumbles half asleep to grab her
robe while Lenia begins making her bed. Crisy leaves her room. Likely to use the privy. It must be outside. I’m one of the few houses that has an indoor one that flushes. Rumors say Aklen Whaerin’s toilet has a silver seat so he can rest his derriere upon the name of the three owners of the silver mine.

  He always keeps it on him. This I know.

  You were wrong, Durain. It’s not on him.

  I have no idea what to do now. The third piece being in a money vault is obvious and I’ll have my chance at that during Varrica Whaerin’s debutante. Maybe I can also find out if it is true about Aklen’s toilet seat. But if I can’t find this piece which should have been relatively easy compared to one locked away, how am I supposed to gain access to the one in the vault?

  Maybe Durain is wrong about the vault, too.

  Lenia is fairly young for a macramist, with corn blond hair wrapped into a chignon at the base of her neck. Blue eyes magnify her smile as she opens the wardrobe for her viewing. She is also unmarried. I’m not sure whether to believe the rumors or not. Who ties the macramist’s dress?

  I shake my head. Now I’m becoming just like the rest of society, believing every female is a flippant whore if they aren’t tied into a dress.

  Crisy comes back into the room.

  “What color would you like to wear today?” Lenia asks her.

  Crisy joins her at the wardrobe. “Red.”

  Lenia selects the indicated dress. I sit on my cot and watch the cheerful pair chatter as Crisy is worked out of her nightgown and into her day dress.

  “Does your father work today?” I ask.

  Crisy nods. “He’s already gone.”

  “Where’s your privy?”

  “In the back yard.”

  I throw on my robe and leave the room. I glance about for intruders but all seems clear. I knock on Brocen’s bedroom door quietly. Just in case. He doesn’t answer. I take that as an invitation to go inside.

  I open up drawers and carefully feel around his neatly folded clothes. The oak chest beneath the window is locked. Maybe it is in there. How can I tell? I’m horrible at this. Of course I’d be blamed if something went missing. A girl who everyone knows was friends with Durain has a sleep over and Brocen’s room is broken into and something goes missing. I’m not a thief. Thieves spend months planning something like this so they could get away with it.

  I give up.

  I actually do have to use the privy, and so when I come back they look at me like I got lost. I rub my belly and mumble something about, “bowel issues” which they seem to accept without further questioning.

  Lenia’s hands are knuckles deep into the special knot on Crisy’s dress when Crisy asks, “Brinella, will you go into that drawer and grab my green glass knot ornament?”

  “Crisy, dear, I’m almost finish with the tie. I can grab it.”

  “It’s alright,” I say, though I have to consciously tell myself not to stomp across the room in agitation because of the terrible, useless night I had. I yank open the indicated drawer on the vanity too harshly and almost huff in indignation.

  I can pretend I never saw the Thorn, grab the green glass ornament which is next to it, close the drawer, and smother my anger that I slept with my head beneath that drawer and spied on Not Uncle Brocen in his… But Crisy will know that I saw it. Will she find it odd that I don’t question it? Would a normal person who’s never seen it before question it on the basis that there is no apparent practical use to the Thorn?

  Now I have this insatiable desire to ask her what it is.

  “Crisy,” I ask, fighting to get the tone of my voice just right so as not to betray the thunder in my heart. I lift the Thorn out of the drawer. “This is pretty. What is it?”

  “Oh,” she begins with a careless air. “It’s a key.”

  “Oh?” I say, looking at it again. The end opposite the thorn-shaped ruby is cut in such a way that it looks like it will fit into mine like a puzzle piece. I want it.

  Seeing as Crisy does not elaborate on her reference to it being a key, I can’t betray myself with further questioning so with force I put it back in the drawer. I hand the green ornament to Lenia and hold my gaze on Crisy’s rosy cheeks and bright eyes fixed on a future marriage. No. Crisy is fifteen. She didn’t murder Durain. But she is still somehow connected to it.

  Lenia ties me into my dress next and my eyes continued roving back to the drawer. I can’t steal it today. I can’t even steal it tomorrow. Maybe not in the next year if I want to be absolutely sure they won’t accuse me. That bird is stuck in my throat again. Will Crisy leave it there? How long has it been there already? How often does she look at it?

  Durain stole the first one from someone else. And then died. Who did the first one belong to?

  My dress is tied and we are ushered into the kitchen. The kitchen is smaller than mine but I like it better. It feels more like a home instead of a museum.

  The kitchen takes half of the room, separate by a breakfast bar with pots dangling above our heads. We are seated at the bar and the cheerful cook hums to herself as she pulls muffins out of the brick oven.

  I eat distractedly, tuning out the conversation between the cook and macramist as they share me and Crisy’s breakfast, an affair not seen in my house.

  Durain died just after he acquired the first one. If I die, who can I trust the secret too? The weight of this responsibility finally settles leaden in my bones. A secret Durian gave his life for, a secret someone killed for. Despite wanting to avenge Durain, the importance of discovering the secret is deepening within me. Valemorren is not what it appears to be.

  I need a disinterested third party, I conclude. Someone else to steal Crisy’s Thorn for me if I am to remain alive and free of blame.

  Breakfast concluded, I thank Crisy for the stay and leave.

  I’m peppered with questions from my mother when I get home; an oddity because she has never shown any real interest in my activities until Jaicom started courting me. Marriage and womanhood are the only things my mother knows and that apparently translated loosely into sleep overs as well. I conclude it is a mercy for her to have been given a daughter because she might have lost her mind by now if she’d been given a son.

  She follows me into my room, describing in detail her first sleep over and I make disinterested noises in reply.

  “I hear that Jaicom loves the violin,” she says, “so I’ve got you starting music lessons on Monday.”

  I pause with a hand on the door knob, bothered that my mother is stalking Jaicom. I open the door and shut her out on the other side. She is absolutely sure to not give me another ounce of freedom before I’m married. I might actually be attracted to Jaicom and be thrilled about being property of my husband if I wasn’t being forced to be.

  I want to punch something.

  I’m at a standstill until Thursday. I can verify at that time if the Whaerin family even have a vault, despite the rumors, and maybe find out how it is opened.

  So I can tell the thief who robbed Corrana’s dress shop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BRINELLA

  My father is reading the newspaper when I sit down for breakfast. As the cook leaves a plate of eggs and ham in front of me, I glance up to the front page I can see at my angle: SILVER FINGERS: Jewelry shop broken into. Thief runs off as parish constables arrive. Minimal loss.

  “Shame,” my father says as he continues to read the story on the next page.

  Bait I think, but asking my mother after breakfast if I can wear her silver necklace my father had made for her from his mine might be too soon.

  I try to ignore the fact that I’m bordering on reckless. But it was important for Durain, so it is important for me.

  “Can I read that after you?” I ask and hope it’s innocent.

  He folds the paper and hands it to me. I open it and read.

  PARISH CONSTABLES DOING A ROUTINE PATROL DOWN SHIRESTRAIGHT… I begin to skim… THIEF WAS WEARING BLACK PANTS, SHIRT AND WORE A MASK OVER HIS ENTIRE
FACE WITH EYE HOLES CUT OUT…

  I close the paper and try to force breakfast into my tight stomach.

  My saddled horse takes me into town for my first day of violin lessons. It crosses my mind to ditch the sessions to use this time for my own needs, but I won’t get away with it since the instructor strikes me as being a rat when I first meet her and so I take my seat with the rest of the class.

  I recognize a few of the girls from my school a couple years earlier. One of them is the second owner to the silver mine. She won’t look at me or acknowledge my efforts when I try to wave at her. In the prudish way she holds her shoulders and shifts around as if having to break through ice every time alerts me to the thought that maybe she is jealous that Jaicom is courting a girl below her own status. She’s prettier than I am, too.

  It almost makes me want to have Jaicom court me to show her she is not privileged to her every want.

  I’ve never considered myself an artist, though one day during mourning I was missing Durain so badly that the painted canvas in my room started to sprout dragon wings to which my mother disapproved and I never could figure out why, so I lost motivation to touch it again.

  As for the violin, it’s struggling to make me work. It tries to sing, but my fingers are always misplaced and I won’t listen to the instrument’s cues to know which angle to pull on the bow. At some point the violin stops teaching me and instead mulls grumpily in discord for the remainder of the class.