The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I understand, Uncle,” I said. I lifted my hand to show him the cuff. “What should I do about this?”

  “Brace yourself,” Uncle Ira said. He touched his finger to the cuff. “Now …”

  The cuff fell off. I staggered, a moment later, as I was suddenly - terrifyingly - aware of the wards crawling over the building. They beat against my mind, thumping so loudly that I was almost overwhelmed. I hadn’t felt so unsettled back home, even though Father had worked the most complex spells possible into our walls. Ira’s wards weren’t entirely friendly, even to family. It took me several minutes to calm myself. Thankfully, Ira had keyed me into the wards already. I dreaded to think of what might happen if he hadn’t.

  It was hard, but somehow I forced myself to look around the room. Spells - more unfriendly than friendly - were everywhere, attached to the portraits or drifting freely around the room. A handful were familiar, nothing more than basic protection wards, but others were a great deal more complex. I didn’t recognise half of them, yet I thought I knew what they did. Uncle Ira had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure his privacy. And I hadn’t even known they were there …

  I shivered as I eyed the cuff on the ground. Was that how Caitlyn sees the world?

  “That … wasn’t pleasant,” I muttered.

  “No,” Uncle Ira agreed. He picked up the cuff and offered it to me. I jammed it in my pocket, certain I never wanted to see it again. “If someone decides to check on you, don’t tell them I took it off. They might use it against us.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Uncle Ira cleared his throat. “And seeing you’re stuck here with us for a few years, here are a few basic rules. I expect you to follow them. If you don’t … well, we’ll see.”

  I nodded wordlessly, looking downcast.

  “First, just in case you’ve forgotten, you are not to go up to the sixth floor,” Ira said. I tried not to look annoyed at the unsubtle suggestion I might have forgotten already. “Second, you have free run of the grounds, but you are not to go beyond the boundary wall without my explicit permission. The world outside is not safe for little girls.”

  “I’m twelve,” I protested.

  “And I’m a hundred and thirty years old,” Uncle Ira countered. “You have a lot to learn, even now, before you go wandering.”

  He paused, waiting for me to say something, before continuing. “Third, you are not to disturb Morag or myself unless it is truly urgent. If it can wait, it can wait. Neither of us will be pleased at being disturbed. I’m a very busy man and she has work of her own to do.”

  “I understand,” I said. I rubbed my cheek unconsciously. The mark had started to fade, but it was still visible. Uncle Ira had to have noticed it. I wondered, sourly, just what Morag had told him. She’d had plenty of time to tell him that I was a little brat who’d deserved far worse than a slap before I joined them for lunch. “What does she do all day?”

  “Work,” Uncle Ira said, sharply. “Finally, you are not to talk to any of the ghosts.”

  I blinked. “The ghosts?”

  “There are supposed to be ghosts here,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe himself. “If you should happen to see one, you are not to talk to it.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said, automatically. Ghosts? I’d heard stories - everyone had - but I’d never seen a real ghost. Most sightings took place far from civilised lands and the stories grew in the telling by the time they reached the cities. Akin hadn’t seen ghosts at the Eternal City and I’d have expected to see them there, if I’d expected to see them at all. “Ghosts?”

  Uncle Ira shrugged. “If you see one, don’t talk to it.”

  I nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself. Kirkhaven was quite a long way from civilisation, certainly far away enough for ghosts … if, of course, there were ghosts. I knew people who simply refused to believe in ghosts, even the handful of documented sightings. Did Uncle Ira believe in ghosts? Or was he simply winding me up?

  “I won’t talk to them,” I said, although I was sure it wouldn’t matter. “Are there any other rules?”

  “Not for the moment,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded oddly annoyed. “You’re too young and inexperienced to be helpful, but too old to be judged innocent and simply sent back home.”

  “I can help,” I said, quickly. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get a potions mastery,” Uncle Ira said. “That would be quite helpful.”

  I looked down at the carpeted floor, trying to hide my face. A potions mastery … I wasn’t going to get a mastery, not now. Magistra Loanda might have recommended me for further training, if I’d done well as a lowerclassmen, but that was water under the bridge now. There was no hope of finding a master willing to take me on, let alone convince the Potions Guild to certify me. Unless I changed my name and forged my certificates … Father might be able to do it, if he splashed out enough money, but it might not be enough. I simply didn’t have the grounding I’d need for a proper apprenticeship.

  “I’ll work in the lab,” I promised. If Father had sent me a correspondence course, I could work my way through it. Maybe that would make things easier. “Or I could find some other way to make myself useful.”

  “Perhaps,” Uncle Ira said.

  He leaned back in his chair, a mannerism that reminded me of my father. “Tell me about Caitlyn Aguirre. What is she?”

  I took a breath. Caitlyn Aguirre was the last person I wanted to talk about, save perhaps for her wretched Great Aunt. And yet, I could hardly refuse to answer his questions. I had no doubt he could force me to talk, if he wished. My magic was strong, but - now I could sense magic again - I knew he was stronger. He felt stronger than Father.

  “She can’t do magic,” I said. “I … there was something about her that felt subtly wrong, somehow. She was utterly defenceless against the spells I cast on her. She was … she had no defences. And yet, the spells never lasted on her. I never saw her cast a single spell, but nothing I did to her lasted that long.”

  “It sounds as though you weren’t very nice to her,” Uncle Ira observed.

  I lowered my eyes. “I know.”

  And now she’s practically going to be one of the family, I thought, with a sudden flare of savage anger. Akin and Cat were too young to marry, but I had no doubt their marriage would be arranged as soon as they both turned seventeen. Too much had happened for the elders of both families to let the happy couple take their time. She’ll be living in the hall while I’m stuck out here!

  I could have kicked myself. If I’d been nicer to her, if I’d tried to befriend her, if I’d listened when she tried to befriend me, if I’d paid attention to my brother … I would never have been disgraced, let alone exiled. But instead, I’d let bitterness overcome me. Stregheria Aguirre hadn’t used any spell to make me help her. I’d believed her because I’d wanted to believe her. It had been the worst mistake of my life.

  “I wasn’t nice to her,” I admitted, frankly. “And I was stupid.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Ira agreed, dryly. “Being sent out here might actually be a stroke of luck.”

  He shrugged and continued before I could muster a response. “She can’t use magic directly, but she can make Objects of Power?”

  “Yes, Uncle.” I looked down at my pale hands. “I never saw her cast a single spell, not directly. I … she used spellcasters, but they were Objects of Power. I never saw her use a spellcaster made by anyone else.”

  “Interesting,” Uncle Ira observed. “A Device of Power would channel magic, shaping it into a spell and casting it. But if she had no magic, the spellcaster would have nothing to draw on.”

  “Her spellcasters were all Objects of Power,” I repeated. “They never seemed to run out of power.”

  “Interesting,” Uncle said, again. “Very interesting indeed.”

  He met my eyes. “Did you ever try to use a spellbinder on her?”

  I shook my head. A spellbinder - a device that kept the spellform in place - mig
ht have worked on Cat, if I’d been able to find one. I wasn’t a good enough forger to make one for myself and asking someone else, even Akin, for a spellbinder would have earned me a great many questions I didn’t want to have to answer. Magister Tallyman would probably have given me a year’s detention for asking for a spellbinder, while Father … I dreaded to think what Father would do. Use the spellbinder on me, probably.

  “I wonder what it would do,” Uncle Ira said. He sounded more interested in Cat than I would have preferred. “Curious, isn’t it? A girl without any magic can do something that has defeated a great many magicians.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said, sullenly.

  Uncle Ira gave me a long look, then nodded to himself. “Cast a spell.”

  I blinked. “What spell?”

  “Any spell.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said.

  I hesitated, trying to decide what spell to use, then cast a simple heating charm. The magic flared around me, shaped by my will. I felt warmer a moment later, although the air was cold. My bedroom would be a great deal better, I thought, now I could warm the air - and water - for myself. And I wouldn’t have to worry about finding new clothes.

  Although I might have to, soon enough, I thought. My school uniform had been charmed to grow with me, if I was still allowed to wear it, but I’d start to grow out of my dresses and underclothes soon enough. Mother had told me I’d probably have a growth spurt when I hit thirteen. What do I do then?

  “Very good,” Uncle Ira told me. “Now, why don’t you go inspect the workrooms? I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

  I smiled. Being able to practice magic again had made me feel a great deal better. “Yes, Uncle.”

  Chapter Five

  “Well,” I said to myself as I stepped into the potions lab, “if Magistra Loanda saw this we’d be in a lot of trouble.”

  The thought amused me more than it should, I suspected. Uncle Ira might have cleaned the room, once upon a time, but it was now covered in dust and the remnants of potions experiments that had gone badly wrong. There were so many wards crawling over the stone that my senses felt oddly muffled the moment I closed the door behind me. The potions lab had clearly been designed to survive all kinds of accidents - the worktable was built of stone, not wood - and it was self-evident that there had been many accidents. I was used to seeing scorch marks on tables, but not on the ceiling!

  It was a better potions lab than any I’d been allowed to use, with careful supervision, back home. One wall was covered in wooden - and heavily warded - bookshelves, groaning under the weight of dozens of books. Another was lined with shelves, all stocked with potions ingredients in glass jars and containers; a third was lined with chests of drawers, probably containing an extensive collection of tools. It would have been wonderful, I thought, if it had been clean. I’d have to clean it myself before I could use it.

  I checked the next room - a sizable storage room, lined with more jars of potions ingredients than I’d seen anywhere outside Jude’s - and then sat down on the dusty seat. It was a wonderful potions lab, it really was, but I was going to clean and check everything myself before I used it. My tutors had told me how to inspect a lab, yet I’d always had someone else checking my work. Magistra Loanda had certainly never trusted any of us to clean her labs without checking everything we did afterwards.

  Shaking my head, I stood and started to search the room for cleaning supplies. Professional potioneers kept their supplies close at hand, if my tutors were to be believed, but it took me several minutes to find the cloths, buckets and neutralisers I’d need to clean the workroom from top to bottom. I didn’t think any of the remnants of a dozen potions, lying on the workbench or splashed on the floor, were dangerous, but I’d have to be careful anyway. The last thing I wanted was an accident so far from help. I had no idea if either Morag or Ira had any healing training, but it didn’t matter. They might not realise that something was wrong until it was far too late.

  I put the supplies by the door and then checked the remaining drawers. One of them was filled with notebooks, dated all the way back to 1935, fifty-eight years ago. There was an indecipherable name on the front covers, but when I opened a couple I discovered that the pages were completely blank. Whoever had purchased the notebooks hadn’t done more than write their name … I smiled in droll amusement. I’d never have been allowed to get away with that at Jude’s. I flicked through a couple of notebooks, just to make sure they were truly blank, then put them aside and searched for a pencil. They’d been stuffed behind the notebooks, hidden from casual view. I puzzled over it as I used a spell to sharpen them, then picked up the first notebook. Before I started to clean, before I did anything, I needed to know precisely what was in the lab.

  It was boring work, I told myself as I started to list the jars of potions ingredients, but oddly fascinating. Magistra Loanda had forced me to catalogue her shelves during one particularly unpleasant detention, yet her stocks had all been common or garden potion ingredients. Firsties weren’t allowed to play with the really interesting ingredients until we knew what we were doing; here, common ingredients were mingled with jars that had to have come from halfway around the world. One jar was filled to the brim with a purplish substance that was marked Spider Blood, another held a handful of dead insects suspended in brine, a third held a human brain … I stared, wondering just what sort of potions required such ingredients. I’d been warned that anything that involved human blood was dangerous, but a brain?

  Perhaps it’s designed to make the drinker smarter, I thought, as I moved to the next set of jars. There were potions that were supposed to provide the drinker with an intelligence boost, but they came with a price. Father had told me that it was better to develop my intelligence than risk losing everything though trying to take shortcuts. Or maybe it’s something truly dark.

  I shook my head. It didn’t seem likely.

  It was an eccentric collection, I decided, as I moved into the storeroom. Half the jars were almost or completely empty and some of the labels were faded, making it impossible to tell what was inside. I thought I could identify a couple, but the remainder were completely unrecognisable. Magistra Loanda would probably have told me to throw the jars out, if she saw them. Playing with potions ingredients was dangerous at the best of times, but messing around when you didn’t have the slightest idea what you were putting into the cauldron … I’d be lucky if I didn’t blow myself up. The potions lab was so heavily warded that I suspected no one would notice if I did.

  I’m sure they’ll notice if I don’t go to dinner, I told myself, as I walked back to the desk and started to compile my notes into something reasonable. And then they’ll start looking for me.

  A shiver ran down my spine. Morag had made it clear that she didn’t care about me, while Uncle Ira … I had the impression that he wasn’t particularly concerned about me either. It wasn’t right to expect the master of the house to drop everything and attend to me, but … I was going to be living with them for years. Uncle Ira should be doing something, surely? I wondered, as I finished cataloguing the shelves, just what he was doing on the sixth floor. If I went to see … I shook my head, dismissing the thought before it had a chance to form. He’d told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to go up to the sixth floor. I really didn’t want to tangle with his wards.

  I finished writing the list and looked down at it doubtfully. We had a dozen jars of pickled bat wings, for some reason, and only one jar of frogspawn. The supplies of common herbs were also quite low, ensuring that it would be difficult for me to brew a number of simple potions. That wouldn’t be too surprising, I supposed: there was normally a frog pond and an herbal garden attached to any serious sorcerer’s mansion. But here …? There was no herbal garden near the hall. I didn’t know if there was a pond, either.

  I’ll have to catch them myself, I thought, and shuddered. I wasn’t particularly squeamish and catching and cutting up small animals - Father had made me do it again and
again until I’d overcome any qualms I might have - but I’d never liked it. If there are any frogs here …

  I sighed, then inspected the list. Uncle Ira would have to order a great many ingredients if he wanted me to practice my potions … and probably watch over my shoulder as I prepared the ingredients and brewed the potions. Some of the basic potions were very forgiving, to the point where the brewer could skip half the preparatory work and still brew an acceptable potion, but the more advanced brews would explode if you looked at them funny. I’d been told off, more than once, for not chopping my ingredients perfectly. Father had told me, time and time again, that shortcuts were dangerous and bad habits were best not developed …

  My heart sank. Would I ever see my father again? I didn’t know. The Arbiters hadn’t said anything about writing letters, but … reading between the lines, there was a definite suggestion that anything I wrote to my father would be read by other eyes first. I wasn’t even sure if my parents could write to me. Or my brother, if he had time to write between studying and courting … my lips quirked in a bitter smile. Being betrothed so early, even if the betrothal was broken when he turned seventeen, was going to put a massive crimp in his social life.

  I glared down at my hands, feeling hot tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. Morag had been right. I had ruined my life. There was no hope of a triumphant return to Shallot, no prospect of taking revenge on everyone who’d mocked me … I supposed I should be glad that I’d been kept isolated after Stregheria Aguirre’s death. At least I didn’t know who’d been telling everyone that she’d always known I was a bad seed. They’d have been saying it to my face if I’d gone out in public. I muttered a word that would have had Mother threatening to wash my mouth out with soap for knowing, let alone saying. I’d been lucky …

  … Yet it didn’t feel like luck.