Marcus chuckles again, and I take pride in the fact that I’ve brought out the slightly lighter side of him twice in two days.
“I call her The Duchess,” he says, gesturing to the swan painting once more. “Do you think that is an apt name?”
I study it, trying to remember all I’ve learned over the years. My father was keen on me learning the sciences, but Mother insisted I study art as well. I liked the art far better than the science.
“There is something regal about her,” I finally say, but then I frown. “But something sad as well.”
“Sad?” Marcus snaps.
I turn away from the painting, startled by his sharp tone. “No? Not sad perhaps…but pensive? A touch melancholy?”
“Perhaps.” He muses over my answer, takes another sip of his tea, and then chooses a large book from the stack on his desk. Instead of continuing the conversation, he says, “Let’s begin our lesson. Sit.”
Like a well-trained dog, I plunk into the chair as directed, fully ready to make something glow. Or at least learn how to heat water with a wave of my hand.
“Magic is the manipulation of matter,” he begins, sounding bored. “It’s an art, not an exact science, though there are those who would argue with me. Unlike twisted old witches in the woods, we do not toss things into bubbling pots and mutter incantations.”
“Do you use ingredients at all?” I ask, frowning.
“Never.”
“Then why, exactly, did you have me gathering a ridiculous amount of mint in the forest?”
He gives me a knowing smile. “I was hoping if I made you miserable enough, you’d quit.”
Of all the nerve…
“But…” His eyes meet mine. “I’m rather pleased you stayed.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. I look down, frowning at my hands. “So the plain, ill-fitting dress? The room the size of a cupboard?”
“Yes. All attempts to get rid of you.” He raises an eyebrow, his eyes sparking with something that’s actually friendly.
“It didn’t seem to work.”
“You are tenacious.” His gaze is intense, so much so that I clear my throat and look away, trying to hide my smile.
“Back to the lesson. Magic is an art, not a soup recipe.”
He pauses to make sure I’m following him, and I nod.
“Every sorcerer or sorceress has a specialty. I am a master of metamorphosis, and along with the basics, I will teach you all I know. Because you’re my apprentice, you will focus on metamorphosis as well.”
“Metamorphosis?”
“Changing matter.”
“Changing it how?”
Marcus tilts his head to the side, studying me. I feel a slight warm breeze, something that wraps around me, embracing me but only for a moment. “Look in the mirror,” he says, nodding toward a silver framed one in the corner.
Instantly wary, I rise.
When I see my reflection, I gasp. My hair, once as silver as moonlit snow, is now raven black.
Marcus comes up behind me, standing just a smidgen too close. “What do you think?” he asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
I have no words, so I don’t even try to answer.
His eyes leave mine, and I watch our reflection as he studies my hair. With a flick of his wrist, the pins fall from my chignon, and my hair tumbles down from the twist, a sheet of obsidian.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmurs, taking a strand of it in his palm.
I shiver, startled as much by the contact as the spell.
“Your hair is long.” He runs his hand down the length of it, a careful caress. After a moment, he shakes his head. “Too long.”
I don’t dare move. I feel a bit like a mouse cornered by a cat.
He laughs to himself, a sound of personal chastisement, and then the warm breeze wraps around me once more. Before my eyes, my hair returns to its original color.
Again, Marcus meets my eyes in the mirror. The strange expression is gone, hidden away, and he once again wears his slightly bored look of everyday disdain. “That’s metamorphosis.”
Slowly, I turn. “It’s a bit disconcerting.”
“It can be.”
Keenly aware of how alone we are in the room, I scoop my fallen pins off the floor and return to my seat. After I run my hands through my hair, I quickly pull it back in a simple twisted bun at the nape of my neck.
“How long will it take me to learn metamorphosis?” I ask when I lower my hands to my lap, hoping to get back to the discussion before it ran off course.
“A great many years,” Marcus says absently, flipping through the book between us, looking for a page.
“A great many years?” I question. “How can that be? You’re not that much older than I am.”
He looks up, his eyes laughing at me. “But I’m a man. Generally, it takes women longer to learn.”
If he were anyone else, I’d smack him over the head with his book.
“I see,” I say, tilting my nose slightly in the air.
“There is no reason to take offense.” He chuckles under his breath as he locates the page he was looking for and pushes the book toward me. “It’s simply the way of it. If you’d come from a background of magic, then perhaps you’d learn quickly, but this is going to be a difficult path, filled with countless hours of studying. You must prepare yourself.”
I’m just about to tell him that no one could possibly be more prepared for countless hours of studying than I when my gaze lands on the tiny pewter figurine next to the book.
“The swan…” I say, narrowing my eyes. She looks graceful and content, head held high, wings against her body, positioned as if she’s floating on a lake.
Marcus glances at it and frowns. “Yes?”
“She was sleeping before, when I first came in, just like the bird in the painting—” I stop abruptly because the still of the swan done in oil looks as if she’s gliding across a lake…head held high, wings against her body. Just exactly like the small sculpture. I turn back to Marcus, feeling slightly panicked. “I swear she was sleeping only moments ago.”
Marcus’s frown grows. “Are you feeling well? Perhaps you should lie down.”
Did his metamorphosis trick addle my brain? Am I imagining things?
“I’m fine,” I say after a moment. “Please continue.”
He watches me for a few seconds longer before he looks back at the book and begins his lesson again, pointing to passages as he teaches. I sit in silence, trying to take it in, but my mind is still on the swan.
* * *
“Take this,” Marcus says, snapping the book shut.
We’ve been sitting here for hours. I try to hide a yawn, but I don’t think I’m entirely successful.
“Read it in its entirety while I’m away.”
“Away?” I jerk my head up, meeting the sorcerer’s eyes. When did he say he was leaving? Surely not—not again.
He gives me a nod, looking as if he’s continuing to question my sanity after the swan episode.
“How long will you be gone?” I try to rein in my disappointment, but it’s difficult to serve as an apprentice to a sorcerer when he insists on leaving constantly. At this rate, I will be old and wrinkled before I leave this manor.
Marcus waves the question away with his hand like it doesn’t matter. “I’m not sure. You are excused.”
I turn to leave, feeling both frustrated and slightly dejected.
“Brynn,” he says, calling me back. “The book.”
He points at the text which explains the very basics of magic that we’ve been going over for hours.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, resisting the urge to rub my stiff neck on my way back to his desk. Learning magic isn’t quite as exciting as I had expected. It’s been a very long afternoon.
“Find the housekeeper for me,” Marcus says absently, picking up the small swan figurine and studying it. “Tell her to prepare her things.”
“Mrs. Stone
is going with you?” I demand, eying the swan in his hands.
“That’s right.” He raises a single, dark eyebrow and meets my gaze. “I assume you can take care of the manor while I’m away. Am I mistaken?”
“No,” I say a tad too curtly, holding back my temper.
“Good. See that you keep up with the chores—tend the house and the garden. Those sorts of things.”
Not only is he taking the housekeeper with him, but Marcus expects me, the daughter of an earl, to step into her position in their absence?
“Would you like me to do anything else while you’re away? Perhaps I can buy a cow to milk or a sheep to sheer? I can find a pickax and take a stab at mining, if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he answers, not even listening at this point. “You should be able to obtain anything you need from the village. I’ll leave you money for goods.”
Gritting my teeth, I take the book and leave the study.
At least with him gone, I’ll be free to visit Gavin.
I bid Marcus a good evening, though a snide part of me hopes he has anything but, and then I shut the door behind me. I turn back, staring at the closed room. My tired mind returns to the curiously shifting swan.
I know I didn’t imagine it, and tomorrow, once Marcus is gone, I’ll prove it to myself.
18
I walk past the study door right after my dull breakfast of sliced bread and then again after a cup of morning tea. Twice, I walk past it while checking the house for stray feathers. (Like me, Porter has been abandoned by his master. At least I’ll have the owl for company.)
It’s afternoon now, and I’m currently standing just outside the study yet again, staring at the wood, wondering what harm there could be in taking a little peek inside. Marcus and Mrs. Stone are gone, off to destinations unknown. And I am here, all alone.
The only problem is, I didn’t actually see the pair leave. This morning, when I woke, they were simply gone.
I place my hand on the knob, draw in a bolstering breath…and turn the handle.
Before I step inside, I glance over my shoulder to make absolutely certain no one is here to witness my small act of rebellion. The house is as silent as it was a moment ago.
I almost expect to walk into some type of ward when I open the door, so I close my eyes as I step in, preparing myself for a nasty magical sting. However, the door opens easily, and I pass into the room without harm.
Immediately, my eyes find the painting. To my great relief, the swan is awake, gliding across the lake, just as she was yesterday. Apparently, I imagined her asleep all along—probably thanks to Marcus’s strange spell.
I should leave now. That’s all I came to check. Marcus wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was trespassing in his personal lair.
Despite that, I dismiss the painting and turn my attention toward the back of the room.
It must be noon, as the sun is directly overhead. The light shines down on the spellbook through the skylight. It calls to me, begging me to take a tiny peek. Ever so quietly, I shut the door and tiptoe down the steps.
The book is closed, and the leather cover is latched with a heavy bronze lock. It makes sense it’s sealed—you wouldn’t want just anyone thumbing through its secrets.
Imagine the mess a person could make.
I brush a finger over the lock. It’s cold against my skin and worn smooth from years of use. When it doesn’t shock me, I press my palm against the leather cover, wondering what secrets it holds.
Such a shame it’s locked. It is locked…isn’t it?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I give the leather strap a tug. It easily falls free with no resistance, practically begging to be opened.
I glance over my shoulder yet again. The room is still, but I can almost feel Marcus.
That’s ridiculous, I think.
Shoving the fanciful thought aside, I draw in a deep breath, let it out in a great burst of air, and flip the book open. A puff of pure magic leaps from its pages in a huff, causing my hair to fly behind me as if I were caught in a great storm. It shuffles papers, rattles candles in their sconces, even causes several of the tapestries along the stone walls to quiver.
And then it’s gone, and the room is at peace.
“That’s unsettling,” I murmur, lying to myself by insisting I’m not even the slightest bit spooked.
I look down, wondering what page I’ve opened. The spell before me isn’t titled, which is inconvenient. The heading simply reads: 456.
Four hundred fifty-six what? Are there four hundred fifty-six spells before it? Perhaps that’s days or hours it takes to create?
Curiosity burns in my chest. I scan the spell, muttering it to myself as my finger trails the words:
Sun and summer,
What’s thy blight?
Wind is hot,
Storms at night,
Greater though
That dwell in light
Famine, hunger,
Eating, needing,
Watching, taunting,
Taking, keeping.
Come for you in swarms that buzz,
Viler beast there never was.
I close the book, more than a little disconcerted. That doesn’t sound like a pleasant spell. Just as soon as I secure the flap, I scream and leap back.
A big, brown grasshopper stares at me from next to the spellbook, large enough it casts a shadow. It looks at me with black eyes, daring me to catch it and take it outside.
I step back and shake my head. “Oh, no, no, no. You can just stay right there until Marcus—”
My foot crunches something brittle. I look down and then yelp again when I step away. Another grasshopper, just as large as the first but rather flattened, lies on the floor, oozing a substance that should stay inside its crispy little body.
Before I can flee up the steps, movement under the desk catches my eyes.
“No,” I whisper, horrified.
There are more of them.
They begin to fall out of every surface imaginable, crawling from corners and furniture, creating an awful cacophony of churring and buzzing that makes me clasp my hands over my ears. I spin, overwhelmed, unsure where to turn. The locusts fly short distances, clacking through the air as they go. They pelt my body and land in my hair.
There must be a hundred of them—no. At least several hundred. Or maybe four hundred and fifty-six.
I race for the book, desperately hoping to find the page I was on last. There is no great release of magic this time, which is a shame as it might have knocked some of the insects away. I shuffle through the pages, flailing as I try to brush the grasshoppers off me. But it’s no use—all the spells are just as cryptic as the first.
Surely there’s a general counter curse?
Finally, I reach Four hundred fifty-six, but there’s nothing at the bottom, no clue how to undo the damage I’ve done.
I can’t just leave them in here. Can I?
Maybe I can. What choice do I have?
And then I remember the book upstairs, resting on my bed. A novice’s guide to magic, as Marcus said.
Desperate, I rush out of the room, knocking the insects free, trying not to lose my wits on the way up the stairs. I slam the door behind me, not even caring at this point if Mrs. Stone or Marcus were to catch me in his study. They’ll find out soon enough when grasshoppers begin to invade the house.
At least the dear old woman won’t go hungry.
I tear open the book the moment I’m up the stairs, skimming the pages, looking for something—anything—that might be helpful.
“Maybe,” I say desperately as I locate a simple spell.
With the book under my arm, I race downstairs, nearly tripping over the long hem of my robe. Refusing to go inside the study, I only crack the door open. I read the spell, my voice shaking.
And then, just like that, the noise ceases. No more clacking, no more buzzing, no more tiny bodies thumping against the door, trying to escape.
I’m just breathing a sigh of relief when a certain silent housekeeper coughs behind me. I whirl around, book pressed to my chest, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?” I demand.
What is she doing here? Aren’t they gone?
The woman watches me, her face expressionless.
“I heard a noise,” I quickly explain. I clear my throat and resist the urge to swipe a strand of hair out of my face. “And I thought you and the master had already left, so I was checking on it.”
Movement catches her attention, and she looks at the floor. I follow her gaze and panic. There’s a huge, nasty grasshopper right by my foot. I shrink away from it, and a chill runs the length of my spine.
I never want to see another one of the pests ever again.
Without so much as flinching, Mrs. Stone leans down and plucks the insect off the floor with her bare hand. She strokes a finger down its back as if it were a wee little pet. Then she turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the hallway. Moments later, I hear the front door open and close.
I stare after her, more than a little disturbed.
Once my pulse slows, I follow her, making sure she’s truly gone this time. Then I turn back to the study door. Even though I don’t want to, I peek inside.
All is silent, quiet, and insect-free. The book is closed, though I don’t remember closing it, and the swan still glides across the lake.
“We’ll be leaving now,” Marcus says from behind me, making me shriek. I place a hand to my chest and turn, breathing hard.
The sorcerer watches me, his expression solemn. His dark eyes, however, crinkle just slightly at the edges in a way that’s too knowing for my liking.
“I thought you’d gone,” I say, not bothering to come up with an excuse for standing outside the study door.
“I’ve been a poor teacher, haven’t I?”
“Oh…” I look over his shoulder, unsure how to answer.
“Always, always”—he takes several steps in, until my back is pressed against the door and he’s standing entirely too close for comfort—“learn the counterspell first.”
The Sorceress in Training: A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Page 11
