The Last Wizard

by Jane M. R.

  It’s hard to tell whether I’m privileged because of my father’s status or if they read my mind, because they start to walk toward town with me pressed between them as if a bird is going to swoop in and carry me away.

  The constable station is bustling with activity when I step inside where a crying father mauls me.

  “I’m okay.” I pat him on his back.

  But he is not willing to let me go yet and I feel the small freedom I thought I had shrink away in the tightening grip of his arms.

  It takes the Chief Constable to tap my father on his shoulder before my father lets me go. He beckons us over to a table and instructs us to sit, my father holding onto my arm so hard it’s going to be numb in a minute.

  The Chief Constable lays paper and an ink well on the table, dips the quill into the ink, and looks at me expectantly. His face juts with sharp plans. Short gray hair spikes at the top and blue eyes do not soften when he asks, “What happened?”

  My headache is interfering with my memory but I relay everything I can remember: how I believed the gypsy named Jesaro and the gypsy with the broken cart was a set up to kidnap me, the description of the gypsy camp I was in and all the people I saw. I consider telling them I thought I heard Aklen’s name pass between the gypsies in conversation, but my head was pounding and I was too scared to really hear what anyone was saying outside my tent so I leave that part out. For some reason, both my father and the Chief Constable don’t believe the part about the thief rescuing me but he writes it down anyway.

  I’m finally released but my father keeps a tight grip on my arms as if Jesaro would be bold enough to steal me right now out of the station. He leads me to his horse.

  “Get on.”

  “Father, I’m really okay.”

  As if I hadn’t spoken at all, he grabs my waist as if I were a child and lifts me into the saddle of his horse despite my fussing and mounts behind me. Tying the reins of my own horse to the back of his saddle, he slaps the reins and the horses launch forward.

  Three constables escort us home. Despite my near horrendous incident, my cheeks still blossom at the embarrassment that will come tomorrow when everyone in Valemorren finds out. It’s probably already printed in the newspaper.

  We turn down our road and my mother exits the house, still tied into her dress despite it must be well past midnight.

  “Brinella!”

  My father stops the horse and indicates I’m to dismount. I do, landing on feet sore from my shoes, completing the agony which had started in my head. I’m wrapped in my mother’s sobbing embrace and because my head and feet hurt, I’m still wet and cold, and I was almost put on a train and taken to Birmingham I begin crying without restraint, clutching at my mother and drink selfishly the warmth and comfort only a relieved mother can provide.

  She huddles me close to her all the way into the house. She wants to hear what happened but lifting my dress so she can lay eyes on my blistered feet cut up by the straps she lets me go to my room to digress and instead bombards my father when he comes in.

  I’m surprised both shoes have retained their heels. I peel them off my feet and throw them in the corner Varseena will know to mean “garbage”. Varseena unties me and I can tell she is struggling in her refrain from asking about my night. All I want to do is sleep. My head is pounding so hard I’m not even hungry.

  My dress untied, I crash onto my bed even before Varseena has time to warm it. She finally leaves and I am left to blessed silence.

  Except for thoughts about these three families keeping something locked away resonating in my brain.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BRINELLA

  SILVERMAN’S DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED BY GYPSIES

  Said the headline on today’s paper. At least my mother is humble enough to not remind me of her warning the first time I met Jesaro.

  Our calling card tray is almost filled to capacity by the end of the day by friends and family who come to call on me to hear about everything the newspaper did not cover.

  It makes me almost want to have a bloody ball and make a massive announcement just to keep me from telling the same story twenty times, and I am so full of tea and crackers by the time the last person leaves that I could be used as a ball for school children to kick around.

  To make it worse, I’m not allowed to leave the house until I get a parish constable assigned to escort me everywhere I want to go for the next ever.

  The only one who doesn’t call on me is Jaicom. I’m not sure if I should be surprised or not.

  If church came as a relief for me, it was only because being confined to the house for three days made me want to chew on my bed post like a bored horse. I’m made to sit in the center of the pews with parish constables surrounding front, back, and to the sides, forcing some people to stand since the constables have taken any leftover seats.

  I’m embarrassed as hell and I hate my life.

  I slink low on the bench as if that would take peoples’ eyes off me.

  The priest emphasizing the importance of constant morality with special interest to not cohorting (is that even a word?) with demons makes me feel strangely like he is directing his sermon at me because I hate tiable dresses and clearly the thief is a demon. He ends his sermon with a, “Pray and repent least you suddenly die in your sins like the burning of Frieton, Marisca, Hrendel, and Joseara Isendell,” which makes me wonder if it wasn’t the priest who had started that fire a year and a half ago.

  My constable who is to escort me for the rest of my life arrives just in time on Monday to take me to violin class. I’m blaming Durain for everything that’s going wrong with me.

  I enter the music room, surrounded instantly by girls in bushy dresses as if I were holding a bowl of seeds to a flock of birds. Surprising because this is the only association I’ve had with any of them so far.

  But it’s not to garner any sort of friendship with me. They actually make their questions sound like I am lucky to have been kidnapped by gypsies because of all attention I’m getting.

  The teacher finally calls us all to take our seats. I’m still granted a small mercy from the instructor who thinks I’ve earned some excuse because of my “traumatic” experience and so does not point out my obvious short comings – still – on the violin.

  After class, I’m reaching for the reins on my horse when my dreaded first name shouts at me from behind.

  “Brinella!”

  I turn to see a girl I’ve never seen before walking toward me. Glossy golden curls tumble over her shoulders. Her dress is a simple, subdued red and brown cotton, billowing mildly at the hips with full sleeves and a wide open chest. The dress does not tie. She appears to be older than me by the way she holds her maturity in a straight back and pulled shoulders that clearly dominates my age of sixteen.

  She stops in front of me. “Are we ready?”

  I stare at her. Aside from me having no clue who this person is, there is something off about the skin on her face. Much too thick and bulgy like… like she has clay all over her face like a mask that is drowned in liquid makeup. Tiny cracks spread all over the drying mask. And the hair looks fake, too, in the light.

  My lack of a response causes her to roll her eyes. She pops open her clutch and pulls out the barest slip of silver from my mother’s necklace.

  A spike of realization jolts through my stomach. Trying to keep my composure, I turn to my escort who is waiting impatiently behind me. Knots of fear sweats in my gut. “This is Madrin,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t shake too much. The thief didn’t provide me a name so I decidedly make one up. “She’s coming back with us.”

  My escort nods and looks around as if hoping someone else will take his job.

  The thief pulls a fan out of her clutch and proceeds to fan herself expertly. If I wasn’t lacking a silver necklace, I would believe the girl was well raised and well kept.

  She walks beside my horse as we head toward my house. A line of buttons up the front of the thief’s bodice kee
ps the dress closed. A woman wearing a non-tiable dress is viewed as a harlot, despite circumstances where a father could not afford one or the girl is living on her own. But that is how my society functions. Total black and white. But I did wonder what kind of background this girl had, why she couldn’t be tied into a dress and why she was a thief in the first place.

  The thief positions herself between the constable and me and begins a very cheerful conversation. I can’t shake the bother that the very thief the city is looking for is riding beside the constable whose job it is to assure I’m not targeted again by thieves. The irony is so heavy I expect the ground to crumble beneath us.

  “I had picked out a baby blue skirt,” Madrin continues, flicking her fingers in the air above her as she speaks, “but when I picked it up it turned out to be an ocean blue…”

  I’m impressed with the girl. Clearly acting, she had picked a character to portray and is killing it with perfection.

  I try to add to the conversation when appropriate but such things feminism are beyond me. Madrin finally notices and tones her persona down.

  The thief and I dismount and the stable hand takes our horses away. The constable dismounts too, tying his horse to the hitching post before going around the back of the house to the kitchen for lunch.

  For a blessed moment, I’m finally alone.

  “Madrin?” the thief asks.

  “You never gave me a name. I had to have something.”

  She nods. “Madrin is fine. So what are our activities going to be to mask the illicit ones?” All gaiety gone, she is all business now.

  I shrug. “This is your idea.”

  “No.” The thief points a finger at me. “This is your idea.”

  I look at the house as if the stone fortress could provide an answer. “Can I ask you some questions?”

  “No.” She steps daintily in the direction of the front doors. “Let’s get started.”

  We walk in silence all the way into the house. I’m not bombarded by my parents so I lead her up the stairs into my room. She pauses, her eyes moving around as if to take in all her surroundings. I close the door, going so far as to look under my bed and in my wardrobe before giving the “all clear.”

  I sit on my bed but she is still letting her gaze consume the room. Do I see hunger in her eyes? The spell upon her breaks and she sits at my vanity. “So.” She clasps her hands in her lap. Her fingers are long and rough looking. I guess her age to be about eighteen or so. “Let’s see it.”

  As I fish under my bed for my lock box, it occurs to me that I will have to relocate it once the thief leaves. Lest she come back and take it.

  I unlock the box, pulling out the copper piece with the ruby thorn. She takes it and studies it from every angle. “Do you have paper and charcoal?”

  I gather the items and set them on top of the vanity. She puts the Thorn – re-named Key – on top of the paper and proceeds to trace it. Finished, she hands the Key back. I quirk my eyebrow as she begins to elaborate the tracing with other pictures so soon the trace image can’t be picked out.

  “Why did you trace it only to draw over it?”

  She sets down the charcoal stick and looks at the mess of lines she created. “In case other eyes chance to see this paper, they will only see these abstracts. But you can still see the trace of the key, right?”

  I could. “Is there a chance that someone will see this?”

  “Despite planning and precautions, there is always a chance at anything. Best to lessen those chances in every way possible. Durain died because he was too impatient.”

  “What turned you into a thief?”

  Her pretty eyes darkened. “Are you changing your mind about this job that you gave me?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t ask personal questions.” She folds the paper with hasty fingers, making it small enough to tuck down the front of her bodice. “I dare not have an iron smith make a duplicate. I don’t know who is on our side, so I’ll be forced to make them myself. I don’t have any friends of who to trust, either.” She leans back on the stool against the vanity, looking at the ceiling. “I have tools to work with wood to make it as smooth as metal, but then weight is an issue. I could insert nuts and bolts to make them heavy but the wood won’t be cold like metal will be sitting in an underground vault. I can use cut glass for rubies. The glass smith won’t find that unusual. So if I start working on it tonight…” She squints and shakes her head. “Two weeks? And then we have to be sure that you have an alibi the night of the thefts. And hope that both parties don’t handle the key pieces enough to notice they’ve been duped. Hell will rise to the surface in Valemorren if they know.”

  I acknowledge with a somber nod. I put the Key back in my secret box and pull out the white cube Durain Willed me. “By chance, do you know what this is?” She knew Durain, if briefly, so it’s worth a shot.

  She takes it and within three seconds her eyes widen. “Bloody angels,” she breaths. “It’s all true.”

  “What’s true?” My heart gallops. “You know what it is?” Still breathless, she nods and hands it back. “What is it?”

  “I’ve told you… for your protection I won’t tell you anything. You’ll have to ask –” She bits her lip and I’m ready to shriek. “I’ll leave you a note in your violin case, telling you the day and time of the steal. I’ll rob the Whaerins first.”

  “You think you actually can?” I doubt. “Not to not trust your… skills or, or anything –”

  “My father was a locksmith. As was my grandfather. My grandfather was the one who installed the Whaerin vault into their house and showed them how to unlock it.” As if closing a book to the conversation, she looks up at me. “It will be up to you to get an alibi during the day and time I specify in the note I’ll leave in your violin case. And you must dispose of the note. I suggest eating it.”

  “Eat it?”

  The thief stands. “Would you show me the way out?”

  I grumble and lock the white cube back inside the box and slid it under my bed.

  We run into my mother halfway down the stairs. “Mother!” I shout, feigning excitement. “This is Madrin. I met her at class and brought her for a visit.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Madrin makes a pretty courtesy.

  “Who are your parents?” my mother asks.

  I’m ready to reply with a lie that’s likely to be stupid but Madrin saves me. “Corden Asterfel is my father. My mother died a year and a half ago. We’ve just moved into town.”

  My mother’s eyes flick downward at Madrin’s un-tiable dress with clear disapproval, though she meets Madrin’s eyes with a smile. “So sorry about your mother. Please tell your father about us and you can join us for dinner sometime.”

  “Certainly. It is a pleasure meeting with you.”

  “Likewise.” My mother dips her head in parting and continues up the stairs.

  The thief is so convincing that I almost believe her, though have to remind myself that if this girl had both parents she wouldn’t be thieving and would be tied into a dress. At least I hope.

  On the porch and still in character, she smiles at me and delivers an elaborate departure speech slathered with niceties and future promises and then walks down the road.

  I drag myself back to my room to wait the two weeks in anxious confined misery.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BRINELLA

  I sleep restlessly for a week and a half, continuing to have dreams that someone is stealing the Key from my lock box. I re-hide the box in my wardrobe, checking to make sure the Key is there every time I wake. Some sane part of this scheming says not to trust the thief I had employed with my own possessions.

  Every violin practice makes me dread opening that violin box. I realize I’m really good at creating situations and then dread the consequences later.

  The Thursday before the theft, I open the violin case. Still no note. Did she back down, been captured?

  My teacher declares the
class will perform for the public next week, though that approaching test still does not scare me into playing any better. The class concludes and my escort’s quiet self is waiting like he’s getting paid and rides silently as usual back home with me. That’s fine. It’s awful enough being tied into a dress and forced to be escorted, but to throw mandatory conversation into the mix would push me over the edge.

  Crisy is so hungry for friends it would be simple to ask her for another overnight stay. But what if she had moved the key since I last saw it? What if the one I saw is fake itself?

  I groan at this last thought. I hadn’t even considered why it was placed in an easily discoverable place. Maybe it was bait to find the thief who had stolen the first of the three.

  Much too late to stop it now. I don’t even have a way to contact the thief, if she had not backed out on me.

  “How was class today?” my mother asks over dinner.

  “Fine. I want to ride with Crisy to church tomorrow.” Well, it’s not that I want to ride with Crisy. More like… I want to be less suspect as possible when her personal belongings go missing. And to have her see me going to church like a saint is an additional bonus.

  “That’s fine, sweetie. And how’s your new friend?”

  “What new friend?” My mother’s odd look confirms my mistake. “Oh… her parents and she take frequent trips back to Bristol, where they are from. Grandmother is sick.” I’m getting better at lying on a whim. I’m hesitant to count that as a skill. “But she hasn’t forgotten the invitation.”

  “And I hope she uses it.”

  “How much longer do I have to be baby sat?” It came out, really, without asking myself for permission.

  “Brinella!” my mother exclaims with more exasperation than necessary. “Why do you question the inconvenience for your safety?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  My father’s sharp look turns my gaze onto my plate. I poke my fish with my fork, wondering when he’ll come to my rescue. “It’s not an inconvenience,” I repair. It is totally inconvenient. “It’s simply annoying. The whole town is talking about me.”