by Alex Linwood
Portia tossed the bucket into the well. It landed with a splash. She pulled up the fresh, clean water, then drank heavily. The water was cold and refreshing. Her fingers and toes tingled in an odd way, but the water tasted so good that she ignored the unusual sensation and took another drink.
She grabbed one of the cloths from the hutch. Even it was a fine linen—rough but pleasing. This town must be well-off indeed if even their cleaning rags were so wonderful. She looked around, feeling uncomfortable in the open like this. Alone. She usually bathed, when she had that luxury, in the harbor with the other Black Cats. There was little privacy, true, but there had been safety in numbers. One or more Black Cats could keep an eye out for other orphan gangs, while the rest took their turn in the muddy water of the harbor. Here, there was no one else but her.
She peered around the yard. There was not another person to be seen. Even so, she gritted her teeth with anxiety at being caught. She undressed in a rush. Dipping the washcloth in the clean water of the bucket, she washed as quickly as she could. Dirt ran down her arms and legs, soaking the grass around the well. Throwing the bucket down for another load of water, she drew it back up again and poured it over her head, soaping her hair as best she could. One final rinse more and she was done. Goosebumps rose on her arms even while standing in the full sunlight. She reached for her dirty clothes, distasteful as they were.
“Stop.” The shopkeeper’s voice rang out over her shoulder. “You’ll just get dirty again.” The shopkeeper walked quickly towards her, her arms holding out a wide expanse of clean white fabric. She reached Portia, wrapping the crisp cloth around her. “Dry off with this. Wrap it around yourself when you’re done and come inside. Leave those rags out here. I’ll deal with them later.” The shopkeeper returned inside, not waiting to see if Portia obeyed. Portia watched her go, then bent down, fished the coins from her jacket where she had stashed them, and grabbed her bag. She didn’t know if she had enough silver for shoes too, so took a hold of her boots as well. She followed the shopkeeper inside.
The shopkeeper waved her into a small dressing room that Portia did not remember seeing when she first came in the shop. The shopkeeper snapped the curtain shut behind Portia. The dressing room only had a small stool and several hooks on the wall. There were no clothes inside of it.
“Are there any colors you prefer?” the shopkeeper’s voice rang out over the curtain.
“Red and black, ma’am.” Portia had always liked red, but it was too bright a color for a thief. If she was going to have a new life like she wanted, and hopefully not as a thief, she could at least wear her favorite colors.
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” tsked the shopkeeper. “My name is Alice. Call me that.”
“Okay… Alice.” Portia felt uncomfortable using the woman’s first name .
“Good girl. Now let me see what I can find for you.” A moment later, a beautiful set of clothes—a deep red and black kirtle, black breaches, and a fine white linen shirt—were thrust around the curtain. “See how these fit you. They look like your size.”
Portia took the outfit in her hands. The wool of the breeches and kirtle felt smooth. It was densely woven, finer than any wool she’d ever had. She pulled on the linen shirt and breeches but wasn’t sure how to lace the long woolen kirtle. She emerged from the dressing room.
Alice nodded in satisfaction. “Much better.” She stepped forward, motioned for Portia to come closer. Alice grabbed the laces of the kirtle and pulled them tight, giving them a good tie. She pushed Portia towards a polished metal mirror. The outfit hugged her form perfectly. Except for her tousled wet hair, she looked more like one of the ladies outside in the square than an orphan on the run.
Portia was surprised at how different she looked. “This is much nicer… I mean, I don’t know if I can afford this,” Portia said, stuttering. She regretted trying them on to begin with before asking the price. She didn’t want a scene, such as what would happen if she was thrown out of the shop.
“Four silver,” Alice replied briskly. She gave Portia’s shoulders a little squeeze, nodded at her in the mirror. “Yes, this will do indeed.”
Four silver? That was all? She breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t believe her luck. Somehow, it didn’t seem right the clothes were so cheap. “That is all you want for them? Really?”
“Yes, girl. You’re in luck—you chose colors that are not popular,” the seamstress said, turning from Portia to straighten what already seemed to be straight stacks of clothes. “This way, I get them off my shelves, and you get something to wear.”
Portia didn’t quite believe her but didn’t want to argue. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t believe it was really her. She looked like a young woman, not a dirty orphan from the streets. She wanted to own these beautiful clothes. And she’d still have money left for food. Before Alice could change her mind, she grabbed the coins from her bag and handed over four silver pieces.
“Thank you,” Portia said.
“No worries, no worries, off you go,” Alice said, waving Portia towards the door.
Portia hesitated. “Should I go and get my old clothes from the back?” She motioned to the backyard.
“No, no. Leave them be—I’ll take care of it. Here,” Alice said, turning to Portia, pushing a bone comb into her hands. “A gift for you. It looks like you need it.” She gave her a warm smile, softening the comment.
Portia nodded, taking the comb. She shoved it into her bag while returning the shopkeeper’s smile. “Thank you again.”
Exiting the shop, the sun was high in the sky. Portia’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had only eaten apples since yesterday. The water from the well could only satisfy her so much. She needed to eat. She spotted the same tavern the caravan had stopped in front of earlier that morning. She wasn’t sure what the customs here were for eating in alehouses, but there didn’t appear to be a market that day. She would have to face the public eatery if she wanted lunch.
Entering the tavern, the noise and smells of the packed alehouse washed over her, overwhelming her. She forced herself to continue inside. Every table and booth was full of people. She had not noticed so many citizens about in town, so she had not expected them here now. She stood surveying the room, unsure what to do. Perhaps she should come back later.
Before she could exit, a bartender stepped up in front of her, a white apron wrapped around his slender body, only his thinning hair betraying his age. “Can I help you?”
“I had wanted to eat, but there aren’t any seats,” she replied .
“Not out here, true. I think I can scrounge one up for you in back. We’ve got some private booths—don’t mind sharing, do you?” he asked, walking to the back, not waiting to hear her response.
“No, of course not,” she said, doubting he could hear her over the din of the loud voices in the open room. She felt for her dagger in case it was a trap. The noise of the room set her nerves on edge.
He opened a door and leaned in. “The tavern is crowded. Do you mind if someone joins you?”
Portia could not hear the response, but the bartender opened the door further and ushered her in. It was a tiny room with one table in it surrounded by benches topped with soft cushions. Two people sat at the table—a young boy of about ten years old, with wild brown hair, and an older woman wearing robes of silver and blue. They looked up and smiled at Portia and the bartender. Portia smiled back at them. The bartender motioned her inside. Portia slid onto the bench closest to the door.
“So, beef is ten coppers, chicken is five, ale included in both. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, looking expectantly at all three of them.
The woman waved his question away. “We’ve already ordered.”
Portia checked her purse. She didn’t want to spend her last silver coin, and she only had three coppers left besides that. She looked at the bartender, trying to look sweet and demur. “How about food only, for three coppers?”
&
nbsp; The bartender considered her offer. Portia gave him a small smile. Finally, he nodded. “Sure. I’ll send the maid back with that.” Portia handed over her coins to him. He pocketed them then shut the door, leaving the three of them alone in the room together.
The young boy stared at Portia until the older woman nudged him to stop. He picked up a fork and played with it, sneaking glances at Portia. The older woman gave him another look but didn’t criticize him further. She looked to Portia. “My name is Professor Hilda Griffiths, and this young man is Randall.” When Portia only nodded, the older woman prompted further, “What is your name, young lady?”
“Portia, ma’am.”
Professor Hilda laughed at that. “No ‘ma’am,’ please. I feel like I am still your age—being called ma’am ruins that all. Call me Hilda, Professor Griffiths, or just Professor if you must give me a title.”
Portia felt her cheeks go red. She wasn’t used to speaking to adults, at least those so well-off as this one. She wasn’t sure what a professor was. “Okay… Professor.”
“So, are you local?” Hilda asked Portia.
“No, I’m just visiting.”
Randall looked at Portia. “Us too. Are you going to the Academy?” He kicked a little in excitement, bouncing up and down on his seat slightly. Hilda gave him a stern look. He stopped bouncing.
“Academy?” Portia asked.
Their conversation was interrupted by the door opening. A waitress entered, carrying three wooden bowls of sop and chicken in one arm, and three mugs of ale in the other. She laid the meal out in front of the guests. Portia motioned the glass away, but the waitress just patted her on the arm. “No worries dear; it’s taken care of.”
“But I can’t—”
The waitress interrupted her. “He’s got it,” she said, motioning with her head to the front of the tavern where the bartender was working.
Portia reluctantly took the glass. The ale looked delicious, but she didn’t want to have to part with silver to pay for it. The waitress gave her a reassuring look and exited, shutting the door on the three diners .
Portia took a bite of the food and realized how ravenous she was. She took another bite before she had even finished chewing the first one. It tasted so good. She knew she was eating too fast and drawing the looks of Hilda and Randall, but she couldn’t help it. She looked down while she ate, refusing to meet their eyes.
All too soon, her bowl was empty. She scraped her spoon along it, getting the last of the liquid. Her stomach rumbled for more food. She looked up to see Randall and Hilda only halfway through their meals. Hilda politely did not look at her or censure her glances at their food. Portia grabbed her mug of ale and drank half of it, willing her stomach to be satisfied with that. It worked, and she was able to lean back and relax, closing her eyes. Her ravenous desire for food was satisfied for the moment.
“The Magic Academy,” Hilda said quietly.
Portia opened her eyes and looked at Hilda. “What?”
“The school, you know, the one where they teach magic,” Randall said. “I’m going to go there.”
Hilda raised her eyebrows at him. “We hope. There is still the test.”
“I’m going to pass the test. I’ve been training my whole life.” Randall said, his voice rising in pitch. Hilda sighed but did not say anything else.
Portia looked back and forth between the two of them in confusion. “You can’t teach magic. Either you have it, or you don’t.”
“That’s not true!” Randall said. “You’re wrong.”
“Randall, let’s not be rude,” Hilda said, patting his arm. “Besides, she’s not entirely wrong. It’s true that some people are born with it. You know that.”
Randall nodded.
Hilda turned her attention to Portia. “There are three types of magic users. Yes, some people are born with an innate ability. But they also can be taught how to control their magic and how to strengthen it. That is the most common type of magic. The second kind have slightly more extensive abilities. They can study an entire tree of magic. For instance, they could be able to use all magic related to air.”
“That’s me,” Randall said.
“You can do all magic related to air?” Portia asked, incredulous.
Randall cupped his hands together in the shape of a ball, muttering under his breath and focusing his eyes on the center of his hands. A small ball of whirling air formed above his palms, getting stronger. Portia felt her hair moving in the breeze it created.
“Stop showing off,” Hilda said, grabbing the napkins off the table before they flew off in the wind. “Randall has the ability for air—we don’t know yet if he has the ability for the entire magical tree of air skills.”
Randall stopped concentrating on the ball of air, letting it dissolve. “I do. Just wait and see.” He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms on his chest.
Portia had tried to take this all in. She had no idea there was a place you could go to learn magic. And this boy was going to attend. It didn’t seem fair. She knew lots of orphans with magical abilities, but they were lucky if they survived to adulthood. She stared at Randall. His cheeks were full, flushed red with food and ale, and his clothing looked new. She doubted he had ever missed a meal in his life. A bitter taste flooded her mouth.
“You’re very lucky,” she said, trying to be gracious.
“Do you have magic?” Randall asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. “If you have magic, you can take the test too. Anyone can.”
Portia stared at Randall in disbelief. Hilda saw the look on her face. “It’s true. The King decreed that anyone with ability should be trained. It’s safer for the kingdom that way.”
“How… how do you get to take the test?” Portia asked.
“It’s given twice a year in Coverack,” Hilda said. “Sign up for one of the testing sessions. ”
“You just show up?”
“You have to send a letter reserving your spot. There is a registration process. It’s not too onerous,” Hilda said, pushing her plate away and gathering her bags. She paused, looked up. “The King has decreed instructions posted in every town. I’m surprised you don’t know this.”
The door to the private booth opened and a man with a hat and beard poked his head in. “The caravan is leaving in five, please be outside. I’m not allowed to wait for anybody.” He disappeared just as quickly, shutting the door behind himself.
Hilda looked at Portia. “Sorry, dear, that was our driver. Randall, finish up; we have to go if you want to take that test.”
Randall shoved the rest of his meal in his mouth. Portia didn’t think he chewed once before swallowing it all.
Hilda slid out between the benches and the table, moving towards the door, followed closely by Randall. They exited the private booth. Hilda was almost lost in the crowd before Portia realized she hadn’t told her about the third magic user type. She leapt up to follow after the professor and her young charge. Portia pushed through the crowd and caught up to Hilda. She grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Wait, what is the third magic type?”
“Why dear, it’s Jack of Magic. It’s someone who can use any type of magic,” Hilda said, patting Portia’s hand, then leaning in conspiratorially. “Personally, I think it’s a myth, but that’s neither here nor there.” Hilda straightened up again, turned to see Randall running off to the exit. “I do so hate to be rude, but we really must go.” Hilda quickly followed the boy out the door.
Portia stood in the crowded alehouse. Myth ? That couldn’t be her, could it? Maybe she was just lucky and all her magic was the same magic tree, whatever a magic tree was.
A man tried to get past her, but there was so little room in the crowded tavern that he knocked her into a table with three workmen around it. She apologized to the surprised men, flustered, then headed quickly for the exit. She emerged just as a caravan of carriages was pulling out of the square. Randall spied her from inside one of them and waved at her as they drove past.
Portia wished with all her heart she was in that carriage too being taken to Coverack.
She allowed herself a moment to feel sorry for herself as she watched the carriages drive away. Then she shook herself. She needed to concentrate on surviving.
And maybe she could go to that Academy, even if she didn’t ride a carriage there like Randall did. She just had to find a way to get to Coverack.
Looking around the square, she didn’t see any other wagons or carriages. She felt her single silver coin. It would be unwise to spend her last money on a ride in any event. She sighed then turned towards the road to Coverack. A figure in a dark blue jacket caught the corner of her eye. It looked familiar. Turning, she saw Peter walking towards her. She cursed—she had forgotten about him on the road.
She panicked and ducked back into the entryway of a butcher shop. Crowded patrons pushed back at her.
Worse yet, her quick motion had attracted Peter’s attention. He ran towards her just as the patrons were shoving her back out of the butcher shop. She ran towards the road, but Peter was faster and caught up to her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to a halt.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled at him, trying to attract attention.
“Quiet!” he hissed at her, pulling her close. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Why not?” she said, yanking at her arm, trying to escape.
“Because if you do, it’ll hurt Mark.” He yanked her back. “A lot.”
She stopped struggling, turned to stare at him. “I don’t believe you.” She glared at him, trying to see if he was lying. It was standard procedure to say anything that was needed to control victims. More than likely, the Black Cats had not captured Mark. She hoped.
