I wanted to ask what situations Oscar dealt with, but I knew that pushing the conversation further could make the master suspicious. So I fell into silence, spooning stew into my mouth and ruminating on what he’d told me. I was certain one of the hard decisions he was referring to was whatever happened with Kurke’s family.
My mind turned back to my conversation with Kurke only this afternoon. The things he had said about Oscar—did it matter if they were true? If Oscar was a murderer, would it somehow acquit us of guilt when we carried out the oath? When we killed him in cold blood?
I rubbed at my head. How long had it been hurting and I hadn’t noticed?
Knowing about Kurke’s past gave me sympathy for the man, much as I hated to admit it. His actions were irrational, but they were driven by sorrow and anger and loss. I could understand those emotions. I could even understand the desire for revenge. I felt the same way after losing Mama and Gavin.
Perhaps I’d been going about this wrong. If I could just appeal to Kurke and let him know that I understood his viewpoint, that I’d been where he was before, then maybe I could talk him down from the extreme position he’d taken.
Maybe.
I rubbed at my head again and then poured myself a cup of water and drank it down.
“How’s my shirt coming?” Master Wendyn gazed at me over the top of the pot of stew. “I don’t suppose you’ve given up on it already?”
“Your shirt is fine. It's clean. It’s better than new.” The words were a slight exaggeration, but one that felt necessary in the face of his obvious mistrust.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“It’s true,” Edie spoke up as she set a bowl of something pudding-like on the table. “I saw it drying in the underwizard’s room. It’s as white as a snowy winter’s morning.” She smiled a dazzling smile at me as though her poetic description had been helpful.
Friar’s bones, how often did Edie go in my room when I wasn’t around? I needed to look into getting a lock on the door.
“Did you?” Master Wendyn gave both of us a measuring glance. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The master’s continued doubts grated on me, but I managed a smile I hope hid my irritation. He’d eat those doubts when he saw how good his shirt looked.
That night I sent a note in the messenger to Matthias Kurke of Platten View. It contained one sentence: “Oscar is gone.” Hopefully giving Kurke immediate notice of this change in circumstances would result in a hold on his revenge plan. After all, I couldn’t convince Oscar to confess his crimes if I couldn’t talk to him.
But Kurke never replied.
***
Once Master Wendyn saw his cleaned shirt, he brought me his fine fabrics to launder once a week—stacks of them. I might as well have never left Waltney. I was still taking in washing, a task I despised.
In the meantime, I watched for Oscar, hoping he’d return so I’d have a chance to get his confession and save his life. But he never appeared.
“Stupid silk stains. Why does every single shirt he owns have to be silk? I hate cleaning silk.” I wrung out a cold wet rag and dabbed at the latest shirt, a cornflower-blue color. An assortment of cleaning solutions lined the kitchen table before me. I had had Mrs. Pitts pick them up for me in Bramford.
Don’t understand. Why you say you clean? Ivan gestured at me from where he crouched next to the fireplace, playing with some rocks or something. You hate clean. Say no.
“Hand me that bottle,” I said, and when Ivan complied, I uncorked it, poured its solution onto my rag, and dabbed at the shirt. “It’s my stupid fault. I’m the one who said I’d do it.” I’d been grousing to Ivan for the last ten minutes.
Use spell?
I made a face at Ivan. “Believe me, I’ve thought of that. Cleaning spells wear out the fabric quicker. Master Wendyn doesn’t want that.” I chewed my lip and stared down at the stains. “Why does he like these shirts, anyway? They’re so...frilly.”
When next I looked up at Ivan, he gestured, I like. Look nice.
I rolled my eyes. “Not you too. Well, if you ever wear a shirt like this, don’t expect me to wash it for you. Find someone else.”
A gust of wind blasted in from the outside door, and a boy stepped inside, as tall as me but thicker through the chest. Not bad looking at all.
“Oh,” he said, stopping short at the sight of Ivan and me. “Hullo. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Cook said I could come in for some food.”
“There’s bread and stew in the larder.” I gestured at the door in the corner, the small room where food lined the shelves.
“Many thanks.” He gave a short bow and turned to go but paused and turned back. “I’m Edwin. New stable hand. You must be the underwizard.”
I nodded at him. “Underwizard Mullins. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is Ivan.”
Ivan didn’t look up from his rocks.
Edwin nodded. “I’ll get my food and go, then.”
It took but a moment for him to complete the task, and I watched him—while trying to seem as though I wasn’t watching him—the entire time.
A new stable hand, eh? And this one young and handsome. There was possibility in this. If I could interest Edie in him, would she leave me alone?
The door banged shut behind him, and in the silence of the kitchens, staring at my mound of laundry once again, I remembered I was in a foul mood. Irritable thoughts crept back in. It wasn’t only the shirt that had upset me. I still hadn’t heard from Kurke, which might have been good news, but under the circumstances had left me with a vaguely unsettled feeling all the time. I lived in fear of him showing his face again. Also, today marked my mother’s Time. Five years ago, on a cold, cheerless day just like this one, Mama breathed her last. Sometimes I missed her so much that my sorrow burned through my chest, an inferno waiting to consume me. On other days, it made me angry at God, the Universe, but mostly Papa, the one who caused her to work herself to death. And myself, the one who broke her heart.
Earlier in the day, I composed a letter to Mama in the traditional way, telling her about the events of the year since I last wrote to her and expressing my love. Ivan walked with me to the small chapel some distance down the highway, and I presented the letter to Mama on the altar there and burned it so the words would find their way on wings of smoke to her home among the angels.
You mother want you happy, Ivan gestured at me afterward, apparently disturbed by the sorrow on my face. Be happy.
I hated the day of Mama’s Time. On most days, I learned to forget my sorrow, but today it felt as fresh as the day it happened.
When next I looked Ivan’s way, a few minutes had passed, and he was crouched on the ground, drawing something on the hearth with a coal from the ash bucket. I frowned and stepped closer.
A face took shape on the hearth. The distance between the eyes, the strong nose, and the confident cut of his chin made it unmistakable. It was Master Wendyn. As I watched, Ivan gave him horns and a rather wicked expression.
I was so struck by the accuracy of the simple drawing that I stood and stared. Ivan caught me looking and gestured, grinning, Master Wendyn.
“I can see that,” I said at last, recovering myself. “The likeness is unmistakable. Ivan, I didn't know you could draw.”
He shrugged before going back to the drawing, finishing it up by giving the master a forked tail and an ominous looking staff. By this time, the drawing had gotten rather large, and we both stood there staring at it, until a great bloop from the kettle on the fire reminded me I was boiling water and there was work I should be doing.
“You’ve captured the cunning on his face the day he tricked me into cleaning his clothes,” I said, taking up the stick next to the fireplace. I stirred the great kettle with it. “I should have known he was up to no good.”
Ivan added in a sinister mustache and a scar across one cheek.
“Black out some of his teeth.” I edged closer again. Ivan complied, and the oddest ur
ge broke over me—the urge to laugh. Despite the bad day and forced laundering and my mother’s Time, I chuckled along with Ivan.
“And what are those?” I asked, gesturing at the scribbles beneath the drawing. The circles and loops and lines didn’t seem to be a part of any picture.
Ivan shrugged. I write. Like you write spells.
I felt my brow furrow. “You mean...you’re trying to write words?”
He nodded and scribbled more loop-de-loops that meant nothing.
An idea took hold of me.
“Stay right here,” I told him and took the back steps two at a time. Once in my bedroom, I rooted around in my trunk until I came up with the primer I stole from the bedroom of some rich young noble, back when Papa and I were thieving. Books had always intrigued me back then because I so wanted to read. I had slid it inside my tunic and never told Papa about it. Later I showed it to Gavin, and we hid it beneath a rock in the Midnight Forest. We would steal out to flip through the pages when we thought no one would notice our absence. But though I found the shapes fascinating and beautiful, I made no headway learning to read until Master Hapthwaite showed me the sounds the letters made. It opened the world to me.
Back in the kitchens, I showed Ivan the letters and pictures in the primer, trying to teach him their meanings by making exaggerated sounds. I was trying to get him to understand the letter C when a voice took us by surprise.
“Is that supposed to be me?”
The two of us started at Master Wendyn’s voice. When had he come in? He stared critically down at the drawing.
“Er—no, no, no,” I said. Beside me, Ivan gestured things that Master Wendyn might or might not understand, as he’d grasped only a few gestures in our hand language so far. “It’s nobody.”
“Don’t be daft. Of course it’s me. You’ve gotten a few things wrong, however. There’s no scar on my cheek, and I’ll have you know my teeth are all my own.”
Not you, Ivan gestured again, and I translated.
“Perhaps not, but if it were, there’s one thing you didn’t get wrong. That tail is just about perfect.”
Ivan and I both gaped at him. The master joked so rarely that it always took me by surprise. But—a pleasant surprise.
“Well, carry on,” he said and left, munching on an apple and humming.
Ivan and I continued to gape, even after he was gone—that is, until we broke into relieved and nervous laughter. I went back to the kettle, dipping out boiling water, while Ivan erased the drawing on the floor with a rueful glance at the kitchen door.
It was such a happy occurrence that the master hadn’t snapped at either of us, that he’d taken the joke in good fun, that some time passed before I remembered again that today was Mama’s Time. But even when I remembered, some of the sting seemed to have gone out of it, and something about Ryker Hall seemed a trifle more cheerful.
Mrs. Pitts stopped in to watch me work and even paid me a compliment. “Great Hepzibah’s fiddle, you’re putting a lot of elbow work into cleaning those shirts. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’ll assume the master threatened you.”
Ivan began a new drawing, and I stirred my pot. We exchanged hand gestures and laughed at nothing and everything as the evening passed.
Ivan was right. Mama would want me to find happiness.
The next day when I went to the library to take up my studying for the fourth and fifth trials—sensory and water magic—a variety of materials rested on the tables. Ivan slipped in beside me and stared in wonderment at the stacks of drawing pads, pencils, paints, canvases, and books on the craft of drawing, sketching, and painting.
“I’m guessing these are for you,” I said, though it was unnecessary, as Ivan was already settling himself before the table and pulling out one of the drawing pads and a pencil.
I pondered on the kindness as I opened my book. How much of what the master did was for show, and how much of it was real? He was irritable and rude, and yet I remembered the kind things I’d seen him do too, like the time he handed Mrs. Pitts that fresh flower when she was in one of her foul moods or feeding stray animals when he thought no one was looking. And now these drawing supplies for Ivan. Despite his protests to the contrary, I was starting to believe there was a kind man beneath all his protests after all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A few days later while I should have been studying in the library—but really I was helping Ivan to sight read simple words in the primer—a commotion overtook the entrance hall. I glanced up. After a moment or two of debate, I stepped out of the room. Standing there in the main hall, back to me as he conversed with the master, was Matthias Kurke.
Blast my curiosity. I took a cautious step backward.
“—brings you by? Is this a social call or official Conclave business?”
“Social. Just wanted to stop by and see how you and the underwizard are doing. And Oscar, of course.”
I eased another step backward. Bones. What was he doing here, really doing here? I had nothing new to report. I hadn’t seen Oscar in at least three weeks, and the master knew as much as I did.
“Grandfather’s taken flight, as he often does. Been away for several weeks now. I imagine he’ll turn up soon, as he always does.”
I turned around and hurried the other way.
“Several weeks? That doesn’t worry you?”
“Maybe it would, if it were anyone else. Oy, underwizard.”
I stopped and then turned around. Master Wendyn motioned me closer. I had no choice but to join them.
“Good day, Master Kurke.” I gave a short bow. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Mullins. You’re looking well. How goes the studying?”
“He’s making great strides,” Master Wendyn supplied. “If he can just keep from putting anyone’s eyes out at the next trial, I’ll count it a success.”
I frowned, but when I looked at the master’s face, he was smiling. Was he teasing me?
“It’s water magic,” I reminded him. “If you’re worried about anything, it should be drowning.”
“Good point. In that case, I’ll think about supplying the judges with a rowboat, as a precaution.”
“And what about for you?” I asked.
“Oh, I know how to swim.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Well. You two seem to be getting along,” Kurke observed.
"I think we understand each other better these days." Master Wendyn ran a hand over the growth of beard on his chin. "And it doesn’t hurt that the underwizard can scrub stains out of any fabric."
"Stains?" Kurke repeated, and I could feel the heat creeping up my face. "Do you mean washing?"
Did he have to mention that?
“Mullins is a whiz with cleaning clothes. He’s been keeping my closet in fine shape.”
“You realize there are cleaning spells you can use to do that, right?”
“Nothing takes the color out of fabrics quicker than a cleaning spell. You can’t replace a good washerwoman.”
Kurke made a choking noise, and I glared at Master Wendyn.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mullins. I’m teasing. Can’t I tease you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.” Stiffness had crept into my voice. “I’m not a washerwoman.”
“Very well. You are good at what you do, though. Take pride in it.” He turned to Kurke. “Will you meet me in the drawing room? I need to speak with the underwizard for a moment.”
For a moment, I thought Kurke would say something else, but then he gave a shrug and shot a scrutinizing glance at me. “All right.” With a nod, he left us.
Once alone, Master Wendyn gestured for me to follow. “Come to my study for a moment, Mullins. I have something to show you.”
My curiosity piqued, I followed in his steps.
“I didn’t know you and the librarian’s daughter were so close.” He came to a stop behind his desk. “She’s sending you packages now?”
“I—what?” I stut
tered, and then my eyes fell on the thing sitting on his desk. The brown-paper-wrapped parcel was addressed to Avery Mullins, care of Ryker Hall, from Orly Edmunns, Wizard’s Library.
“Where did—” I began, but the master cut me off.
“It came in the messenger this morning,” he said, motioning toward the hallway and the messenger box. I’d only ever received notes on official Conclave business via the box, confirming trial times and so forth. This was my first personal message. What could it be?
“Er...I asked her to look for a book for me. Something about...” I cast about for an appropriate topic and settled on, “...one of my trials.”
“Let’s see it, then. Open it up.” He passed it over. “I’ve never known the Wizard’s Library to bother with home deliveries. Just how much flirting have you been doing under the guise of library research?”
My eyebrows shot upward. “It’s nothing like that. She’s an acquaintance.”
“Yes,” the master said in a voice that said he didn’t believe me. “Like Edie is just an acquaintance?”
“I’ve never encouraged Edie.”
“I feel I should warn you, underwizard. Master wizards should be above reproach. You don’t want to develop a reputation as a philanderer. Things like that get back to the Council.”
“Why are you so determined to believe I’m lying about this?” I hugged the package to my chest, my grip too tight. “I’m not a mindless flirt. Edie and Orly are both just friends.”
For a moment he stared at me. Then he sighed, scratched his chin, and fell into his chair. “God’s ghost, you’re right. I’m a suspicious fishwife.”
“I didn’t want to put it that way, but—yes.”
He jerked his head in the direction we’d just come from. “Matt was always in trouble during our apprenticeships, always starting relationships and lying to his master about them. I suppose I equate the two of you as one. He used to brawl, and I first ran into you after a public brawl.”
My face must show how aghast that statement made me, because he chuckled.
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