by R. L. King
Still, Desmond didn’t respond. He remained behind his desk, still as death, his eyes fixed on his now-former apprentice.
Alastair stood there a moment longer, fists clenched at his side, breathing hard, his whole body singing with energy and anger. When he finally spoke again, his voice shook with it. “It’s all right, sir. It’s probably best I found this out now. If those are the kinds of rules you want me to follow, then I don’t want anything to do with them. You might be the best magic teacher around, but some things are more important than magic. I might have to wait until I’m eighteen before I can find another teacher, but at least this way I’ll be able to live with myself.”
Desmond continued watching him for several seconds, unmoving. When he spoke, his voice was calm and steady. “It is too late for you to leave tonight, Mr. Stone, and in any case, I have an engagement that will take me away for the remainder of the evening. Please pack your things, and I will call your father in the morning when I return.”
He stood, and sighed. “I truly regret that it had to end this way, Mr. Stone. As I said, your potential is immense—possibly the strongest I have ever seen, and that includes Gareth Selby. You will make a fine mage someday, when you learn to control your passions. I wish all the best to you and whomever is fortunate to be your teacher, when you are old enough.”
On a whim, Alastair switched to magical sight. To his surprise, he saw a hint of unrest around Desmond’s normally unflappable aura. It lasted only a second, and then it was gone. Already his surge of adrenaline was starting to fade, giving way to the cold, gray rise of despair, disappointment, and regret. He wanted to take back some of what he said—but not all of it. He didn’t regret what he’d done last night, Desmond’s rules be damned. He’d do it again if faced with the same situation.
But none of that mattered now—he’d done it, he couldn’t take it back even if he wanted to, and his days as the youngest apprentice of the finest magic teacher in Britain were now at their end.
“Yes, sir,” was all he said. Then, before Desmond could say anything else, he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. The old-fashioned way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kerrick had to know what had happened, because he was once again loitering in the great room as Alastair came striding through, head down, eyes focused, and fists clenched.
“Sir—” he called softly.
Alastair wasn’t sure he could speak to anyone right now without screaming, or saying something he’d regret, or possibly even bursting into frustrated tears. “Not now, please, Kerrick,” he muttered without stopping. All he wanted to do was get back to his room, lock the door, and close the world out.
“Sir, please—” Kerrick’s tone was gentle, almost fatherly.
Alastair stopped and whirled on him. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ anymore.”
“Why wouldn’t I—”
“He’s chucked me out!” His voice came louder than he wanted it to, and even if Kerrick might not have noticed the shake in it, he did. “I’m not his apprentice anymore. I’m done. So just—please, leave me alone. I’ve got to go pack.”
Kerrick looked shocked. “Mr. Stone, please, stop for a moment. You say he’s terminated your apprenticeship?”
“He didn’t tell you?” Every nerve in Alastair’s body was shrieking, demanding that he move or he might simply fly to pieces. “The way you looked at me before, I thought you knew.” He forced his voice down to something close to calm—it wasn’t great, but it was the best he could manage right now.
“No, sir. He didn’t. I thought he might not approve of your visits with the young lady in town, but—”
Alastair almost laughed; the whole thing was so absurd. “Madeleine? No, he was fine with her. As long as she didn’t affect my studies, anyway. No, apparently he thinks I should have run off and let a girl get raped rather than break his stupid rule against using magic he didn’t authorize.” He clenched his fists tighter. “If that’s how he feels, then it’s good I found out now.”
Kerrick’s expression grew more shocked, and then he raised his hands. “No…sir…that can’t be what he said. I know Mr. Desmond. He wouldn’t have—”
“Look.” Alastair took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. It didn’t work. “I don’t give a damn what happened to Gareth Selby, okay? I’m not Gareth Selby. I tried to obey Desmond’s rules. I did the best job I could. I wanted this more than anything in the world, and I was willing to give up everything to get it. At least that’s what I thought.” He glared at Kerrick. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? I wasn’t willing to give up everything—not quite. I might not be William Desmond’s golden-boy apprentice anymore, but at least I’ve still got my self-respect. Now, will you let me go, please? I’ve got to pack before tomorrow, and I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.”
“Of course, sir.” Kerrick’s expression had shifted from shock to sadness. “But if you’ll permit me to say one more thing before you do…”
“What?” Alastair hated the harsh impatience in his tone—out of all the people in this strange, almost otherworldly place, Kerrick had been the one who’d made the biggest effort to make him feel normal. The man didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his misplaced wrath.
Kerrick approached him slowly, as if he were a skittish animal in the forest who might bolt away if frightened. When Alastair didn’t move, he reached out a tentative hand and put it on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry this happened, sir. I want you to know that. I was looking forward to having you here. But please believe me—Mr. Desmond isn’t a tyrant, or a cruel man. Of course he wouldn’t have wanted that poor girl to be hurt. But—and he wouldn’t want me to tell you this, so I ask that you don’t reveal that I did—he took Gareth Selby’s death very hard. It devastated him—and more to the point, it frightened him to his core. Why do you think he hasn’t taken another apprentice in so many years?”
He tightened his grip a little. “I wondered at first why he might have decided after all this time not only to take another one, but one far younger than any of the others he’s trained. Would you like to know the conclusion I came to?”
Alastair still wanted to dash up the stairs and disappear, but Kerrick’s soft words piqued his curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, looking at the floor.
“I think…I think perhaps he thought that with a younger student—someone with the talent he required, but with less life experience—he might be able to ease back into teaching with an apprentice who’d be less inclined to defy him and thus put him- or herself at risk. I’m sure he would deny that, but as I said, I’ve known him for many years. I might not have a shred of magical talent, but I still see things.”
Alastair didn’t shrug off Kerrick’s hand on his shoulder. “That didn’t work out so well for him, did it?” he asked with a soft, bitter laugh.
“No, sir. I think perhaps you might have been a bit more than he expected.”
“Yes…well…it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It’s over. Thanks for everything, Kerrick. Really. It was good to know you, and I appreciate your trying to make things—well, normal—for me while I was here.” He could feel himself shaking now. He had to get away before he did something he’d regret.
“Goodbye, Kerrick,” he mumbled, and then darted up the stairs before anyone else could show up.
The last thing he wanted right now was for Selby to turn up to gloat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He didn’t encounter anybody else on his way back to his room—whether that was by accident or design, he neither knew nor cared. He flung open the door, shut it hard behind him, and flipped the lock. Then he flung himself onto his bed face-down, his whole body still thrumming with energy. He gripped the pillow so hard his fingers almost tore through the pillowcase.
What had he done?
/> Three solid weeks of hard work and exhaustion—not to mention everything he’d done back at Barrow—and now, in an instant, it was all over. Just like that, his dreams of being the youngest apprentice ever, of studying with the best teacher in Britain, were gone like so much smoke drifting away on the wind. This time tomorrow, he’d be back home in Surrey, facing his father.
A failure.
But he wasn’t a failure! He threw himself over onto his back, his glare boring into the ceiling even though he wasn’t truly seeing it in the dimming late-afternoon light.
Sure, he’d failed to obey Desmond’s rule—his arbitrary, draconian prohibition against any kind of originality or initiative from his apprentices. The rule that had been established because, years ago, another apprentice had overreached while trying to impress his teacher. But that wasn’t what Alastair had been trying to do. Maybe the first time, with the shield-and-telekinesis combo. He’d deserved what he’d gotten for that, and he hadn’t argued with the dressing-down he’d received over it.
But last night—no. That wasn’t failure. That was being a decent human being, and using whatever resources he had at hand to deal with a bad situation.
He sighed, thinking. Was Desmond right? Was there something else he could have done, without breaking the rule? He hadn’t even stopped to consider it at the time, but merely acted without any thought. What would he have done if he’d been a mundane and didn’t have magical power to fall back on? There had been a policeman nearby, though he hadn’t known it at the time. If he’d yelled, maybe the cop would have heard him and come running.
Or, more likely, those three drunken louts would have heard him first. They’d have come after him. He might have been able to outrun them—he was fast and agile, and they’d been pissed off their arses. But if they’d caught him, they’d probably have beaten him badly.
But so what? If they had, it probably would have given Rosemary time to run away. Maybe the cop would have noticed the commotion and turned up before things got too badly out of hand. Weren’t a few bruises or even broken bones worth that?
Was he a coward? Had he taken the easy way out, using magic instead of risking injury like a mundane? Was that what Desmond had meant about his being too young—that he wasn’t mature enough to know when magic was the proper response to a situation, and when it could better be handled with mundane methods? Could it be, now that he had this most wondrous of hammers at his command, that every problem suddenly looked like a nail?
He let his breath out in a loud whoosh and slumped back into the pillows. He didn’t know. But in any case, it didn’t matter. Desmond wasn’t going to change his mind. Not if he apologized, not if he tried to explain, not if he begged.
Not that he’d do any of those things, of course. The situation was already bad enough as it was, without crawling back to Desmond like a sniveling coward.
It was over.
He’d made his choice, and now he’d have to accept the consequences.
He was done, at least for the foreseeable future.
He had no idea what his father would say, or what his opinion would be of Alastair’s reasons for what he did. He wasn’t even sure he’d listen to them. There was a lot he didn’t know about his father—he hadn’t quite realized how much until recently. Would Orion Stone send him to another school? Try to find him another master? See if he could convince Walter Yarborough to take him on three years early, after he’d washed out with Desmond?
He had no idea, and that was what scared him the most.
He couldn’t give up magic. Not now. Not after all he’d learned.
There was no way he would allow the adults in his life to give him this tantalizing, intoxicating view of a world full of wonders, then slam the door shut on it for three more years.
He’d figure out something. He had time. But for now—
For now, he had to pack.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: it was four forty-five. He still had plenty of time to pack before tomorrow. That was the one good side of not being allowed to bring much with him, he decided: it wouldn’t take long to stuff it into boxes and get it ready to go. A twinge of regret struck him as he remembered he’d have to leave the magnificent library downstairs—especially after he’d spent all that time organizing it. Maybe, once his father forgave him for failing with Desmond, he might be allowed to use the one back home.
Suddenly, his thoughts turned to Madeleine. Even though he’d already decided to break off whatever budding relationship he might have been developing with her, right now he wished she were here, just so he could have someone to talk to who wasn’t part of the Caventhorne freak show. He wasn’t an apprentice anymore—it didn’t matter if seeing her affected his work, because he didn’t have any work. For a few moments, he entertained the idea of sneaking out of the house and heading into Wexley to find her before he left tomorrow. He could pack later, when he got back. Maybe they could spend a couple of hours together before he had to leave, and he could say a proper goodbye to her instead of slinking off like an awkward idiot.
It was a tempting thought. But as he lay there on the bed, a fog of exhaustion settled over him. He hadn’t gotten much sleep lately, and between the events of last night and his confrontation with Desmond, he’d used reserves of adrenaline that he hadn’t had much time to replenish. His head hurt, his body ached, his stomach rumbled, and fatigue held his limbs down to the bed sufficiently that even thoughts of Madeleine weren’t enough to rouse him to action.
I’ll just stay here for a bit and rest…I can always go later on, in an hour or so, and then pack when I get back. That way, Desmond will be gone and I won’t have to answer to anybody.
He didn’t even notice when he drifted off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When he awoke, it was dark.
He sat up quickly from his splayed sprawl and switched on his nightstand light so he could see the old-fashioned clock (nothing as modern as a digital alarm clock had ever passed the doors of Caventhorne, as far as he knew).
Nine-thirty.
Bloody hell, he’d slept for nearly five hours!
He must have been more tired than he’d thought. He swung his legs around, ran a hand through his hair, and contemplated his room as all the thoughts from the past day came crashing down on him at once.
For a brief moment just as he woke, he’d prayed everything he remembered might only have been the worst nightmare ever—worse than the one where you showed up for a final after forgetting to attend any of the classes, or even the one where you realized you’d somehow ended up at school stark naked.
But no, he’d have taken either of those in an instant over the reality of losing his apprenticeship. And now, because his exhausted body had betrayed him, he wouldn’t even have time to say goodbye to Madeleine before he’d be packed off back to Surrey tomorrow. Even if he could sneak out, it was far too late for him to show up on her doorstep.
He looked around his small, cell-like chamber. He still had to pack, and suddenly a job that had looked quick and easy at five o’clock seemed far more daunting at closer to ten.
Best to get started, he supposed. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any more sleep tonight, after all.
His stomach rumbled again. He’d missed dinner; he wondered if Kerrick had come up and knocked softly on his door, but left again when he didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard any knock, but that wasn’t a surprise. He’d slept so deeply he didn’t even remember any dreams this time.
He thought about going downstairs to see if he could find something in the kitchen, but decided not to. Too much chance of encountering somebody, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk to anyone now—not even Kerrick. He wondered if they’d all be lined up tomorrow morning to see him off, and dreaded the thought. Walking a gauntlet like that would be the final indignit
y, even if they did mean well.
Still, he supposed they would want to say goodbye. He’d developed good relationships with most of them during his stay, and he thought they liked having him around. Esteban sometimes prepared special treats for him, while Gretchen treated him with brisk motherly affection. Max had lent him his Vespa, and Kerrick…well, he wondered whether he’d have made it through his last three weeks without Kerrick serving as a self-proclaimed “buffer” between him and the intense, formidable Desmond. He’d always be grateful for that, and hoped he might see the man again someday.
At least he wouldn’t miss Selby.
He pushed himself off the bed and retrieved his large suitcase from his armoire, then began robotically pulling clothes from his dresser drawers and stuffing them in. No, he wouldn’t miss Selby. After his talk with Desmond about the assistant steward’s situation, he felt he understood Selby a little better, and sympathized with his situation, but that didn’t mean he felt any more comfortable around the prickly young man, who always seemed to be simmering with resentment and veiled anger.
He finished emptying the dresser drawers, folded up a few pairs of trousers to fill the suitcase, and snapped it shut, then spread two garment bags on the bed and put his suits and jackets in them. He hadn’t even had a chance to wear a suit past his first day—Desmond hadn’t taken him anywhere, let alone anywhere requiring more formal attire. Perhaps instructing him to bring them at all had been wishful thinking, in anticipation of his passing his apprenticeship.
Alastair dropped to his knees and dug three broken-down boxes from under his bed. Was Desmond disappointed that he’d failed? Alastair had seen some oddness around the man’s aura there at the end—had he been hoping his would-be apprentice would make it through the trial period too? The thought seemed strange; William Desmond was even more of a force of nature than his father, and it hardly seemed possible that the man had desires, hopes, and dreams like a normal person.
