I locate Marcus’s study inside the library after a bland breakfast of porridge. I stand in front of the double doors, wondering what’s on the other side. Curiosity tugs at me, the pull so strong I almost test the handle just to see if the sorcerer bothered to lock it.
But ignoring his first set of instructions seems like a poor way to begin an apprenticeship. After several long minutes spent pondering the possibilities, I step away from the doors and browse the shelves of books I assume I’m allowed to touch. Marcus never explicitly said I couldn’t, so I’ll take that as permission.
I quickly find there’s nothing for me here—only the sorts of volumes that rest on the shelves in my family’s library—all are very academic. All are very boring.
I end up back in my cubby of a room, on the bed, flipping through the well-worn pages of my book of sonnets. I have most of them memorized, and I close my eyes and recite a favorite when I reach it.
It comforts me, and with my eyes closed, I can almost pretend I’m back home, in the room I grew up in. Of course, to complete that picture, I must imagine a softer bed and a dozen more pillows.
Once I’m finished, I close the tiny book and lovingly stroke the gold lettering on the cover. I would have been heartbroken if I’d lost this. Again, my mind tries to wander to Gavin. I refuse to give in this time and shove him out of my thoughts. It’s a task I’ve performed dozens upon dozens of times today, but it continues to be excruciatingly difficult.
It will be better once Marcus is back, I promise myself. I’ll be too busy to think of Gavin, at least as often. I’ll throw myself into my studies, be a model apprentice.
I roll to my side, wondering what life will be like. Marcus and I will have to spend a considerable amount of time together—I’m afraid there’s no way around that. True, he’s a bit odd. Handsome though—easy enough to look at. But impatient. Proud. Difficult.
I’m not delusional—I know working with him won’t be pleasant.
But he’ll grow accustomed to my presence. I’ll make myself useful. With time, it will work out. He’ll grow to appreciate me.
I wrote Charity a letter this morning. In it, I begged her to keep my location a secret and requested she send me some of my belongings. As I lie here, I debate writing Father as well, though I know I won’t.
I’ll wait until I have something to tell him—something about my studies. News of my disappearance might have reached him by now. He and Mother will be worried about me, perhaps even think I was kidnapped by bandits. Clenching my eyes shut, I hug my pillow to my chest, trying not to dwell on it.
I spend the rest of the day wandering the manor and the small garden. The village of Whiteshire is nearby, but I don’t venture there just yet. There’s enough to see here.
I expect to find servants: gardeners, maids, cooks, and grooms—a steward at the very least, but Mrs. Stone and I are the only living souls in the house. We’re truly alone here in the woods.
On the morning of my tenth day in the manor, just as the sun crests the mountains, I hear a horse coming up the road. Instantly awake, I pull myself from the bed and pad across the cold floor to peek out the window.
And there’s Marcus in the garden, returned from whatever errand he set himself on. He walks his horse to the stable, taking care of the chore of tending the stallion himself. I wait, wondering if he’ll look up at my window.
He doesn’t.
I let the drape fall back in place and then begin the task of readying myself for the day.
Marcus sits at the head of the table when I arrive in the dining room for breakfast. A book sits in front of him, claiming all his attention.
“Good morning,” I say, feeling as awkward as a newborn colt. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands.
Marcus looks up, mildly surprised to see me—almost as if he forgot I was here. “Oh. Hello, Brianne.”
“It’s Brynn.”
He angles his head to the side, his dark green eyes narrowed with thought. “Are you certain?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I laugh before I can stop myself. “Quite certain.”
“Hmmm.”
Before I can answer, a screech sounds from the corner of the room, startling me so badly, I jump a foot in the air. I turn abruptly, and my eyes land on a gray and brown spotted owl in the corner. It sits on a perch, staring at me.
“There’s an owl in the dining room,” I say dumbly.
“So it would appear.”
“Is it yours?”
Marcus looks up, his eyes meeting mine. “His name is Porter. He’s contrary and unsocial. Don’t wander too close or you’re liable to lose a finger.”
I give the bird another wary look, not caring for the fact that when I’m at the table, it will be behind me.
Marcus nods to my chair. “Are you going to stand there as you eat, or will you sit?”
I give Porter one last long look—what is it with this man and birds?—before I drop into my chair and try to ignore the owl. My setting has been placed next to the sorcerer’s, directly at his right-hand side. The table is large, and I hadn’t expected to be quite so close.
Mrs. Stone brings our porridge—the same thing I’ve had every morning since I arrived—and then slips away, quiet as always.
“She’s a bit like a ghost,” I whisper, glancing at Marcus, hoping to engage him in an actual conversation. “She always comes and goes so quietly.”
Marcus closes the book and picks up his spoon. “You’ll grow used to her.”
“How long has she worked for you?”
“I don’t remember.” He scrunches his brow. “Several years I suppose.”
Many sorcerers have a reputation for being brilliant but absentminded. It seems Marcus fits the description as well.
We eat in near silence, and I glance his way as often as I dare, studying him. He has on a fine doublet in blood red—a bit ostentatious, but he wears it well. There’s a dagger on his belt, and the ensemble is complete with tall black boots. He looks very much like the noblemen I grew up around.
From my seat, I have a good view of his mark. The scrolls are a bit thicker than mine—more masculine. Still, they’re subtle, close to his hairline, and don’t extend over his cheek.
I resist the urge to run my hand over my own mark. It’s still new and wondrous, and I catch myself continually peering at it in the dozens of mirrors that are scattered around the house.
“What is it?” Marcus demands, feeling my gaze on him.
I look down quickly and dip my spoon into the thick porridge. “Nothing.”
Marcus rises after we finish breakfast, taking his book with him. Then, without saying so much as a word, he leaves the table.
“Master Marcus,” I call before he reaches the door.
Where is he going now?
The sorcerer turns, and though he doesn’t appear irritated exactly, he wears a look of extreme impatience.
“May I assist you today?” I ask, desperate to begin my training.
The master sorcerer crosses his arms, looking as if he’s trying to come up with a task for me.
“Walk to the village,” he finally says. “Buy a package of salt and forty-six—” He pauses abruptly, his eyes narrowing with thought. “No—forty-seven nails.”
I stare at him, at a loss for words. “Salt and nails?”
“That’s right. Return before dark.”
What an absurd mission.
Holding in a sigh, I nod. “I’ll need money, sir. I have none.”
Looking rather put out, Marcus strides forward, reaching into the pouch at his side, and then offers me five silver coins. “That should be enough.”
I nod, accepting the money, trying to look less dejected than I feel. After he places the coins in my palm, Marcus heads toward his study, leaving me alone once more.
10
Salt and forty-seven nails.
I huff down the road, grumbling under my breath. I could be learning something—beginning m
y studies—but no. I’m running errands like a common peasant girl.
Spring is now at the height of its glory in the mountains. Birds chirp from the trees, and the sun is warm on my shoulders. A storm could blow in any day now, bringing sleet and bitter snow, but that’s just the way it is in the mountains. I’m thankful today is pleasant.
I arrive in Whiteshire by midday. The village boasts a smattering of cottages and small buildings, but only one main dirt road runs through the center of town. A variety of shops and businesses sit off it, and their painted signs depict the wares they carry within.
A woman sweeps a nearby covered porch, and I can feel her eyes on me as I pass. The village is remote. I’m sure they rarely have visitors, especially ones who show up on foot. Glad I wore my hair down, hiding my mark, I give her a friendly nod and continue, looking for a general merchandise shop and the local blacksmith.
As I walk, I become thankful for the simple dress Mrs. Stone supplied. The village is quaint, and I’d stand out in one of my usual gowns—looking more like an outsider than I already do.
I’m hoping to make a friend or two here, people I can spend time with when Marcus abandons me again—which I’m quite confident he will. And I’m not sure anyone would talk to me if they knew I was the daughter of an earl.
A two-story stone building with wildflowers growing around the foundation appears to be the general merchandise shop. The sign on the door boasts a carving of several barrels, along with a bolt of fabric and a few loose apples. The name simply reads “Caspar’s.”
I walk up the graying wooden stairs, careful not to bump the pots of earth that line the steps. They must have been recently seeded, as tiny green shoots poke from the dark soil.
The shop’s door is open, letting in fresh air. They’ll have to keep it closed during the heat of summer, when flies and gnats come out, but the season is still too cool for the pests to make an appearance.
“Hello,” a young woman calls from behind the counter, sounding distracted. She’s around my age and wears a dress similar to mine in style, though hers is a pretty shade of rose that complements her skin and wheat-blond hair. She waves absently, her attention solely on the book in front of her. When she does glance my way, her eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know you.”
I laugh, startled by her abruptness. “I’m Brynn.”
“What are you doing in Whiteshire? Are you visiting family? Are you courting someone? Oh, I know! You’re Rodger’s niece. He was just talking the other day about—”
“I’m apprenticing Master Marcus,” I say before she runs out of breath, realizing I’ll have no choice but to tell people who I am.
“Master Marcus?” She cocks her head to the side like an owl, reminding me of Porter.
“The sorcerer who lives just outside of the village,” I supply.
She stares at me blankly. “The sorcerer?”
“Tall? Black hair?” I say, perplexed. He’s not exactly a man a girl would be inclined to forget. “Ridiculously handsome, has a sorcerer’s mark?”
Letting out a loud exhale that almost sounds like a laugh, she says, “Oh, I know who he is. I just can’t imagine…”
“Oh.” I look down at my dress, feeling less than sorceress-like. “I suppose I don’t look the type, do I?”
“No, it’s not you.” She lets out a laugh. “I just can’t imagine living with that man. He’s intimidating, isn’t he?”
Dropping my voice, I answer, “A little.”
“Are you…” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Together?”
My mouth falls open. “Of course not. That wouldn’t be—”
“Proper? Seemly?” She grins, and I get the feeling I’m a new novelty, one she’s not going to let go anytime soon. “But are you taken with him?”
“No.”
“Are you taken with anyone? Courting? Betrothed?”
It’s true I haven’t met a lot of people in my life, especially those without titles affixed to their names. Is this how all the common society behaves? She’s very persistent. Still, she seems pleasant enough.
“There is someone,” I admit, “but he doesn’t—”
“Return your feelings?” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter, settling in for a story.
“I don’t know,” I say softly. It feels weird to speak of it out loud. I couldn’t even tell Charity how I felt about Gavin. I couldn’t tell anyone.
“Is he very handsome?”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet?”
“He worked for my father.” I grow more uncomfortable by the moment.
“Sometimes these things have a way of working themselves out,” she says brightly. “For example, the man I’ve been in love with since I was a young girl just returned to the village. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, and yet here he is.”
“That’s lovely,” I tell her, and I mean it. I hope with all my being I will see Gavin again someday.
She stares off in space, daydreaming before she looks back at me. “I’m Kella by the way.”
I almost introduce myself again, and then I remember I’ve done that already. I end up smiling in an awkward way, wishing I hadn’t spent most of my free time cooped up in the house, reading books Mother and Father thought were academic enough to suit me.
Or rather, I wish I hadn’t spent all my time in the house hiding unsuitable books behind ones they thought were suitable.
We had dinner parties, of course, and I was allowed to attend the king and queen’s wedding festivities several years ago. But everyone knew what my future held, and it seemed no one my age had a desire to get close.
“I’m here for salt,” I tell Kella, deciding its time I get back to my errand. “And nails if you have them.”
“I have salt in that barrel over there.” She motions to a row of them along the far wall. “Help yourself. You’ll have to go to the blacksmith for the nails. The shop is in front of their forge.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I head for the barrels and package a small amount of salt. A large glass jar of tea rests on a shelf above the barrels.
“I only saw black tea,” I tell Kella when I return to her counter and hand her payment for my purchase. “Do you have any other varieties?”
In the village I grew up in, we had access to a wide assortment—spiced with orange peels; herbal concoctions made of dark red flower petals from the tropics and a sweet, floral fragrance; and rich peppermint and chamomile.
“Our locals aren’t fussy,” Kella answers, “so we only stock the black. I’m sure you can find more in Heston.” She studies me. “Where are you from, Brynn?”
“Morgenbruch.”
“Oh!” She leans forward on her elbows again. “The Witch Queen’s kingdom!”
I shift a little. I never knew Greta well, but she’s kind enough, and gossip makes me uncomfortable. I was only sixteen when she married the king, but the whole affair seemed terribly romantic to me.
“Do you know her?” Kella presses.
“I’ve met her, yes.”
“Met her?” Her eyes run over my dress once more.
I decide not to tell her about my lineage. If she knew anything of the way of sorcerers, she’d know I couldn’t become an apprentice if I weren’t from a noble family. But she doesn’t seem to, and maybe it’s best to keep it that way.
“Her Majesty sold flowers in the village before she married the king,” I explain.
“Before she turned the straw into gold,” Kella says eagerly.
It’s my turn to shrug. “Where is the blacksmith again?”
“Oh, yes.” She comes from around the counter and opens the front door. Then she steps onto the porch and points down the street. “Last shop before you leave town. You can’t miss it and—oh! Wait just a moment, please.”
She hurries inside, leaving me standing in the cool shade. She comes back with a small brown paper package. “Give this to the blacksmith’s apprentice, will you?”
Wasting no time, she scoots me on my way.
I follow the street, smiling at those who acknowledge me. As Kella promised, I have no trouble finding the shop. I step inside and glance around, impressed by the array of weaponry and armor that adorns the walls. It’s a little village, but they must do a fair amount of business elsewhere.
“Hello there,” a big and brawny woman says from the back, taking me by surprise. She’s as tall as a man, as stout as an ox, and wears a smile as bright as the sun. “I don’t think I know you.”
“I’m Brynn, Master Marcus’s new apprentice.”
Her smile dims. “The sorcerer?”
Slowly, I nod.
“Strange man. You watch yourself with that one.” She eyes me and then shakes her head. “Of course, I don’t know you. Maybe you’re a strange girl, and the two of you will suit each other just fine.”
I open my mouth and then pause, unsure how to answer. Finally, I say, “I…don’t believe I’m strange. Not that I know of anyway.”
The woman lets out a loud roar of a laugh and motions me forward. “Don’t linger in the doorway like a confused cat. What can Brunhilda do for you?”
“Oh, yes.” I give myself a mental shake. “I need forty-seven nails.”
“Exactly forty-seven?”
“Those were my instructions.”
“Strange man indeed,” she mumbles and then pulls a bucket from under her sturdy counter and begins counting black nails. “Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four…and that’s all I have. Will that do?”
I frown. “I don’t think so.”
“Best go out back, have Gavin make you a few more.”
My head jerks up. “Who?”
“Gavin, my nephew. He’s a nice man—not like that sorcerer you’ve got yourself learning from.” Brunhilda leans over the counter and gives me an exaggerated wink and a nudge. “Easy on the eyes, too. If you’re not in love with him by the time you leave, you’ll be the only woman in the village immune to his charm. But don’t go getting your hopes up. He’s the sensible type—too sensible if you ask me. All he’s done since he arrived home is work.”
The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 6
