by R. L. King
Alastair nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He liked Kerrick already—the man reminded him of a younger version of Aubrey, the caretaker at his home, and certainly seemed a lot less intense than Desmond. He wondered if he went with the London house, or if he’d be accompanying them to this Caventhorne place.
As he followed Kerrick to the dining room, he said, “You’re not alone here, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Kerrick said. “Not at all. There are quite a number of others: maids, the chef and his assistants, a driver…we bring in others on a temporary basis as needed when Mr. Desmond is in residence.”
“Do you…know about…?” Alastair trailed off, unsure of how to ask the question. If Kerrick wasn’t familiar with Desmond’s activities, he certainly didn’t want to give anything away.
“Mr. Desmond’s magic?” He chuckled. “Oh, yes sir. It would be difficult not to.”
“Everyone here does, then?” That surprised him. The magical community was generally fairly secretive about its existence.
“Not everyone,” he said. “Just the full-time staff. More at Caventhorne.” He stood aside and waved Alastair to a chair at a long wooden table. Only one place had been set.
Alastair sat down. The room was huge and gloomy; the table was big enough to accommodate ten people at least. He wondered if he’d be eating his meals alone every day once he arrived at the country house, or if Desmond would join him. He didn’t mind being alone—in fact, he often preferred his own company to that of others his own age—but this might be taking things a bit far.
“How does that work?” he asked. “You can’t exactly advertise in the newspaper, can you? Seeking staff for home in Kensington. Must approve of magic.”
Kerrick chuckled again. “Not exactly, sir. Most of the staff come from families already familiar with the Art. If you’ll excuse me—I’ll bring your dinner and then I must attend to some last-minute duties.”
Alastair pondered that as he waited. So Desmond hired his servants from among failed mages, or those from magical families who didn’t inherit the Talent? He supposed it made sense in one way, but in another it seemed a bit cruel to keep anyone who might have had magic but didn’t in a situation where they were surrounded by it. Desmond must pay very well, was all he could think of.
Kerrick returned with a covered tray and a goblet. He set both in front of Alastair and removed the cover. “I hope everything’s to your liking, sir.”
Alastair eyed the roast beef and vegetables. They looked and smelled delicious, especially given that he’d missed lunch. “Thank you. It’s great. And—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Well…do you have to call me ‘sir’?”
“You’re Mr. Desmond’s apprentice. It’s generally considered proper.”
“Not yet I’m not,” he said wryly. “Not until I pass my probation.” He twisted in his chair a bit. “Could I ask you a question? I don’t want to ask anything I’m not supposed to, but I’m curious.”
“I’ll certainly do my best to answer, if I’m permitted to.”
“Mr. Desmond told me today that one of his apprentices died. Do you know anything about that?”
Kerrick’s cheerful expression clouded. “It’s been many years, sir. And no, I’m not permitted to discuss the details. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Sorry. I’m fine here, thanks. Don’t let me keep you from anything.”
Kerrick nodded. “Just remember, Mr. Stone—he wouldn’t have agreed to give you a trial if he didn’t think you could succeed. Mr. Desmond doesn’t waste his time on anyone he doesn’t think has potential.”
Alastair nodded. Given that Desmond hadn’t met him before today, he wondered how true that was—or if the man was just doing his father a favor. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Best if you do. There will be times when you’ll find it difficult to believe, but as long as you do what’s expected of you and Mr. Desmond determines that you’re performing at the levels he requires, you’ll be fine. I must go now, but I’ll meet you downstairs tomorrow morning at eight. You can come to the kitchen at seven for breakfast if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
Kerrick left to continue with his duties, and Alastair ate quickly—not just because he was hungry, but because the cavernous dining room made him uncomfortable, like someone was watching him.
He wondered if anyone was.
CHAPTER SIX
Alastair didn’t have to worry about oversleeping and missing his ride at eight o’clock the following morning, because he barely slept at all. He’d stayed up until well after midnight studying the two books Desmond had given him, trying to memorize as much of them as he could. Then, when he finally fell into bed at a bit after three a.m., he tossed and turned and woke up every half-hour or so to check the clock and make sure he hadn’t missed the time, even though he’d set an alarm.
He wasn’t hungry in the slightest, but decided he’d best eat something or at least get a cup of coffee, since he had no idea how long the trip would take or when he’d get a chance to eat again. He bolted down a couple pieces of toast and coffee, then hurried downstairs with his bags at seven forty-five.
Kerrick was waiting for him. “Good morning, sir. I hope you slept well.”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“Which is to say very little, yes?” Kerrick smiled knowingly. “Well, that’s fairly common, so I suppose you’d best get used to it. Let me take those bags for you.”
“It’s all right. I’ve got them.”
“Good enough. The car’s waiting for you out front.”
Alastair wondered again if Kerrick would be joining them at the country house, but didn’t ask. He followed him outside, where a staid, shining black Mercedes sedan waited. It was a lovely car, many years old but immaculately maintained. A man Alastair couldn’t see clearly sat behind the wheel.
“Right, then,” Kerrick said after they’d stowed Alastair’s bags in the trunk and he’d settled into the back seat. “You’re off. I’ll see you again this evening, after I’ve seen to things here.” He patted the car’s fender and the driver pulled smoothly out into traffic.
Alastair sat back and watched the drizzly London scenery crawl by as the driver picked his way through the heavy traffic. From his position, Alastair couldn’t get a good look at the man, other than to tell he was probably in his forties, pale and dark-haired, and dressed in a severe black suit. He’d half expected a formal chauffeur’s uniform, but perhaps even the lofty and ultra-traditional Desmond didn’t go that far.
The man didn’t seem inclined to talk, so Alastair took the opportunity to think over the events of the previous day. His father hadn’t done much to prepare him for his eventual apprenticeship (probably thinking he still had three more years to do so), but he doubted it would have been anything like this if he’d ended up studying with Walter Yarborough. He thought about Barrow—what had the other boys been told about why he’d suddenly disappeared? Did they think he’d been expelled? Had he been expelled? His father hadn’t shared the details of the inquiry with him, but he supposed it didn’t matter. If he failed with Desmond, his father would no doubt send him somewhere else, or arrange for a private tutor until he was old enough to either start with Yarborough or enter University.
He pulled one of the books Desmond had given him from his briefcase and opened it to where he’d left off last night. He was not going to fail! That wasn’t an option. He’d never be able to face his father again if he did—not after he himself had taken such a big risk by trying to learn magic on his own, and after his father had convinced Desmond to take him on.
He only looked up occasionally from his books during the hour-long trip once they’d gotten out of London proper. The weather didn’t improve; in fact, the rain fell harder as the driver maintained a stead
y pace on the motorway. Eventually they left the main road and wound their way through a series of increasingly narrower lanes bordered by rolling hills, forest, and hedgerows.
The Mercedes pulled up in front of a set of high, wrought-iron gates set into a stone wall. Though the driver did not appear to call or otherwise announce their presence, after a few seconds the gates swung inward to admit them. The driver didn’t seem at all fazed by this, but merely drove in and continued up a meandering lane through a thicket of trees.
Alastair put the book away, finally taking an interest in his surroundings. It took nearly five minutes once they’d passed the gates before they rounded a last bend and the house rose into view.
Alastair couldn’t help gaping a little, gripping the back of the seat in front of him to take the place in. He was no stranger to large houses—his own ancestral home in Surrey was a vast, rambling thing on a wooded estate not entirely unlike this one—but the sheer size and grandness of this place made the Stone home look like a two-bedroom council flat in Hackney.
For one thing, it was in a lot better repair than his own home. Rising three stories and stretching out on both sides of a central main hall, it was at least twice the size of the place in Surrey. Alastair wondered how long it would take to get from one side of it to the other. It must cost a fortune to heat.
The driver pulled up in front of a set of marble steps leading to the front door. “Here we are, sir. May I help you with your bags?”
“Er—no. Thank you. I’ll be fine.” Alastair scrambled out with his briefcase and smaller bag. While he waited for the driver to open the trunk and retrieve his larger one, he wondered if anyone was waiting for his arrival, or if he’d have to knock on the door as if he were selling encyclopedias or something.
He needn’t have worried. A moment later, one of the elaborately carved front doors opened and a man in a formal suit similar to the one Kerrick had worn emerged. “Good morning, Mr. Stone. Welcome to Caventhorne Hall.”
The man didn’t look as cheerful as Kerrick, but at least he didn’t look like he’d swallowed a lemon. He was perhaps forty-five, with sandy, short-cut hair, a neat moustache, and a profile that had probably been sharp at some point but was now softened by extra weight. “Thank you,” Alastair said.
“I’m Samuels, the estate steward. Let me get your bags, and I’ll show you to your room so you can get yourself settled in.”
Alastair kept hold of his briefcase, but let the man take the other bags. “Is Mr. Desmond here?”
“He’ll arrive later this afternoon, sir. Please follow me.”
Samuels led the way through a formal entry hall into a massive great room, and then up a flight of stairs to the top floor. Alastair did his best to take the place in, but he had had hurry to keep up with the steward’s quick steps. His overall impression was that William Desmond wasn’t simply well-off—he was wealthy on a scale Alastair had never seen before. Once again, he wondered how old his prospective master was, and how many holdings and business dealings he must be involved with.
Samuels hurried down a hallway lined with paintings and pushed open a door at the end. “Here we are, sir. Your things have arrived already. You’ll have until three o’clock to unpack and settle in before Mr. Desmond wishes to see you. Your lavatory is across the hall. Will you be needing any further assistance?”
Alastair didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he supposed somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d thought his room would be decorated similarly to what he’d seen so far in the rest of the place: perhaps an ornate wooden bed, heavy curtains, antique furniture. Maybe even some priceless work of art hanging on the wall.
As soon as he saw it, he realized he should have known better.
The room wasn’t exactly bare. In fact, it was quite serviceable, and included all the things one might expect a bedroom to have: a bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, an armoire, a desk, a lamp, and a bookshelf. It even had a rug, though it was a simple brown one rather than any kind of priceless Persian.
Alastair took the place in quickly: the bare walls, the simple bedspread, the sturdy but unremarkable furniture, all of it of fine construction and possibly antique, but simple and functional. It looked a bit like the cell of a well-to-do monk.
Or his dorm room back at Barrow, before he’d done anything to decorate it.
I’m not here for luxury, he reminded himself. I’m here to learn magic.
He realized Samuels was still standing in the doorway, waiting for an answer. “Er—no. Thank you. I’ll be fine. Where will I find Mr. Desmond?”
“I’ll come back for you at two forty-five to show you to his study. Will that be all, sir?”
Already, Alastair was growing uncomfortable with the level of formality around here. Despite the fact that almost all the boys at Barrow came from wealthy families, nobody was coddled or called “sir” there—and Aubrey, while he did refer to both Alastair and his father that way, was more like a sarcastic but kindly uncle than a servant. Right now, all Alastair wanted was to have a little time to himself to decompress and come to terms with the circumstances of his new life. “I’m fine, thanks.”
I am fine. Once I talk to Desmond and we get started with magic training, none of the rest of this will matter.
“Very good, sir. Later on, after you’ve settled in and spoken with Mr. Desmond, I’ll arrange for a more formal tour. If you need anything, there’s an intercom by your desk.”
Alastair hadn’t noticed that. Given the rest of the place, he’d have expected one of those old-fashioned bell pulls. “Got it. Thanks.”
Samuels departed, closing the door behind him and leaving Alastair standing in the middle of his new home. At least for the next month, his cynical mind supplied helpfully. Unless I wash out before then.
Angrily, he shoved the thought aside and attacked the task of getting unpacked. As Samuels had said, his things had arrived: a neat stack of three boxes stood in one corner of the room; another small one, labeled BOOKS, sat on the desk, and when he opened the armoire door he found his jackets, shirts, and trousers already hung neatly inside.
By the time he’d put the rest of his clothes in the armoire and dresser drawers, installed his toiletries in the lavatory (which was as spartan as the bedroom), and put his notebooks, pens, and other school supplies in the desk, it was barely one o’clock.
Last, he opened the box of books and began arranging them on the shelf. There weren’t many—he shelved a few textbooks he’d brought from his Barrow stash in case his tutor wanted to see how far along he was in his studies, then paused a moment, staring down into the box as memories returned.
Before he’d headed off on another trip two days before Alastair was set to meet Desmond, Orion Stone had called his son once more into his study. “I’ve got something for you,” he said.
Alastair had no idea what it might be—though his father always made sure he had everything he needed, he was rarely the spontaneous gift-giving type. “Sir?”
Stone levitated a box from behind his desk and settled it on the top. “I was going to give you these when you started your apprenticeship—I never thought it might be this soon.”
Holding his breath, Alastair opened the box to discover a series of large tomes bound in fine brown leather, each one with a title in either Latin or some language that looked like Latin, but wasn’t quite. They were clearly very old, but had been immaculately maintained.
He glanced up at his father in surprise, then carefully removed one of the volumes and opened it to a random page. On it was an elaborate diagram, along with what looked like a spell formula and list of reagents.
Stone favored Alastair with one of his rare small smiles. “It’s quite basic as magical libraries go—someday you’ll have all of mine, of course, but you’ll want to add your own touches as your experience grows.
These are some introductory reference books that got me started during my own apprenticeship. You should find the formulae useful through at least your second year, and some of the reference material longer than that.”
Alastair’s grip had tightened on the book he held, and he struggled not to let his reaction reach his face. His father wasn’t a fan of emotional displays, but more than anything else, the gift of these books—books his own father had used during his apprenticeship, and possibly his grandfather before that—had made the whole thing real to him in a way nothing else had so far.
“Thank you, sir,” he said softly, closing the book and putting it back in the box. “I’ll take good care of them.”
“I know you will.” And then the moment had passed and he was off again, clapping his son on the shoulder as he swept by on his way out, leaving Alastair to gaze down at the box, his mind whirling with possibilities.
Now, he carefully gave the volumes pride of place on the top shelf, along with one of the two Desmond had lent him yesterday. He still had nearly two hours before Samuels would return, and as much as he might enjoy doing a bit of exploration on his own, he thought that might be best saved for after he’d spoken with Desmond. Just hold it together for a month, he told himself as he sat down at the desk and opened the other book. Once Desmond had accepted him as a formal apprentice, he was sure things had to loosen up at least somewhat.
Nobody could be that stiff and formal constantly.
He hoped.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Samuels knocked on Alastair’s door promptly at two forty-five.
“Mr. Desmond is waiting for you, sir. You’ll be dining later this evening, after your session.”
Alastair put the book aside and followed the steward down the hall toward the stairway. They descended to the ground floor, crossed the great room, and headed down another hall.
