The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  I worked in the library, trying to sort the books; I dug through chests of clothes, hoping to find better outfits to wear. It was deeply frustrating; half the clothes were designed for children, the other half for adults who were taller than me. I experimented with a handful of shrinking spells, trying to resize them to something more suitable, but the ancient fabric didn’t take the magic very well. The clothes either suddenly returned to their old size at unpredictable intervals, or simply fell to pieces five or six minutes after I cast the spells. Morag could probably have helped, but I was reluctant to ask her for anything. I rather suspected she was in a vile mood.

  The only bright spot was that Uncle Ira seemed pleased with my essay, returning it with a lot of notes pointing out what I’d done right and detailing the issues with what I’d done wrong. I enjoyed his praise more than I should have done, perhaps, although he promptly assigned me two more potions to brew and another essay to write. He seemed to like the older healing potions, though he seemed to have invented quite a few variants on the original recipes. I wasn’t sure why he didn’t simply send them in to the Guild of Potioneers. It wasn’t as if they’d reject them just because their creator was in disgrace.

  “I have my reasons,” he said, when I asked. “Why don’t you focus on your work?”

  I was thoroughly bored - again - after the fourth day of rainfall. I just wasn’t suited to being alone. Akin would probably have enjoyed the chance to work at a forge without being interrupted - and I knew a handful of girls who would have loved the solitude - but I wanted to be surrounded by friends and clients at all times. I wanted to play games, to try on clothes, to chat about life … even, perhaps, to have a sleepover. But it wasn’t going to happen. Morag was twenty years older than me and showed no inclination to pretend to be my friend. And I saw so little of Uncle Ira that there were times when I wondered if he was napping on the sixth floor. He didn’t seem inclined to be anything more than a part-time tutor.

  It was midmorning when I slowly made my way down to the kitchens, once again. I didn’t hold out much hope of finding something to do, but it was the only thing I could think of. I couldn’t go outside unless I wanted to be soaked and I was in no state to concentrate on the books. I hadn’t been able to find any fiction in the hall, not even a handful of the tedious and moralising works I’d been forced to read as a child. I’d hated them when I was six - the kids were practically perfect in every way - but I might have enjoyed rereading them now that I was a little older. If nothing else, I could amuse myself by noting just how blatantly they’d been written for young children.

  Morag frowned when I entered the kitchen. “Yes?”

  “Can I help?” I hated the pleading sound in my voice. “Please?”

  “I suppose,” Morag said, after a moment. She pointed to a chopping block. “You can start by peeling a dozen carrots and chopping eleven of them into pennies. Make sure you cut the ends off.”

  I nodded, grateful for something to do. Morag kept an eye on me for a moment as I started to work, then started to cut up an onion and a large red pepper herself. I felt oddly at peace as we worked in companionable silence, even though I would normally have tried to chat if I was working with someone my own age. When she was done, Morag started to melt some butter in a large pan while I finished chopping the carrots. She was humming cheerfully to herself.

  “Done,” I said. “What are we cooking?”

  “Carrot soup,” Morag said, shortly. She dropped the onion, pepper and chopped carrots into the pan. “It tastes very good, if left to simmer long enough.”

  “There’s no spellform,” I guessed.

  Morag gave me an odd look. “This isn’t a potion,” she said. “There’s no magic involved at all.”

  She took a wooden spoon out of the drawer and passed it to me. “Stir every minute or so,” she ordered. “We don’t want the food sticking to the bottom and burning.”

  I nodded and did as I was told. The butter was starting to sizzle, slowly softening the vegetables. It smelt a little odd, but I decided it would probably taste better when we’d finished cooking. Morag headed into the backroom and returned with a single large chicken, wrapped in a preservation spell. I watched with grim fascination as she carefully removed the feathers, placing them to one side. I’d heard of spells that involved chicken feathers, but I’d never seen them performed. Most of them were regarded as borderline dark.

  “Keep stirring,” Morag said. “If you burn the vegetables, you’ll have to start again.”

  And probably eat them anyway, I thought, sourly. It isn’t as if there is a carrot shortage.

  “They’re softer now,” I said. “What do we do?”

  Morag came over, took the spoon and pressed it down on a carrot. “A minute or two longer,” she said, giving me back the spoon. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  She hurried into the backroom; returning, a few minutes later, with a large jug of brownish liquid. I wasn’t sure what it was, but the smell was so strong that it seemed to waft through the air like smoke. It wasn’t unpleasant, merely overpowering. Morag took the spoon, checked the carrot again, then poured the liquid into the pan. I flinched back, expecting a vile smell. Instead, it smelled surprisingly nice.

  “Let it come back to boil, then place it on the simmering plate,” Morag ordered, clicking her finger at a heating element next to me. It glowed as it came to life. “Make sure you put the lid on once it’s bubbling.”

  “Yes, Senior,” I said.

  She hurried back into the rear section, leaving me alone. I frowned, wondering just how much food she’d salted away. The soup started to bubble, so I placed the lid on top and then moved it to the simmering plate. Morag hadn’t returned, so I walked into the rear section and stopped in surprise. It was crammed with canned goods, utterly drenched in preservation spells. Morag was bent over a large metal box, searching for something inside. I slipped back before she turned and saw me. I had the feeling she wouldn’t be pleased if she knew I was watching her.

  “The soup needs to simmer for an hour,” Morag said. She pointed to the chicken. “You can help me get ready to roast this beast.”

  I nodded. “Where does the food come from? I mean … there isn’t an emporium here, is there?”

  Morag gave me a sardonic look. “Of course not,” she said. “I buy the food at Kirkhaven Town.”

  “Kirkhaven Town?”

  “There’s a town further down the valley,” Morag said. “I go there every so often to buy food for the hall. Where did you think the food came from?”

  I shrugged. I’d never believed that food came from magic, unlike a distant cousin who’d been horrified to discover that a sweet little lamb had been killed to provide meat for the autumn feast, but I hadn’t thought much about how an animal moved from the farm to my dinner plate. The cooks bought meat somewhere in the city, didn’t they? That was all I needed to know. But here …

  “You go every week?”

  “I go whenever I need to go,” Morag said, briskly. She stuffed a lemon in the chicken, rubbed butter all over the meat and dumped it into a roasting tray. The remaining carrot and an onion went in beside the chicken. “It’s a change.”

  I looked up, trying not to sound like I was begging. “Can I come with you, the next time you go?”

  “No,” Morag said.

  I felt my heart sink. “Why … why not?”

  “Because you have been told no,” Morag said, sharply. “And most smart children would recognise that that is the end of the matter.”

  I looked down, feeling trapped. I hadn’t managed to explore all the grounds, not yet, but … when I did, I suspected I would find little to keep me occupied. It wasn’t as if I had anyone to explore them with. And now … I’d had the brief hope of being allowed to leave, if only for a few hours, only to have it dashed in my face. Of course Morag didn’t want me to go with her! It was the only taste of freedom she enjoyed. Why would she want to share it with me?

  Morag c
leared her throat. “The Master ordered that you were not to leave the grounds,” she said, with surprising gentleness. “You can ask him yourself, if you like, but I don’t think he’ll change his mind. This isn’t a safe place for children.”

  I forced myself to keep my voice calm. “I was safe in Shallot …”

  “Because you had the family name,” Morag told me, curtly. “Here, hardly anyone knows who you are. The world outside the grounds is not safe.”

  “I’d be with you,” I protested.

  “You can ask the Master to change his mind,” Morag said. “But, until then, you are not to leave the grounds.”

  She turned to the stove. “Now, do you actually want to help or do you want to sulk?”

  I swallowed several nasty responses as she lit the stove, waited for it to heat properly, then placed the chicken into the cooking chamber. I’d never realised that cooking could be so complicated, or that it was so very different from potions. Morag didn’t give me time to sulk, either. She set me to peeling potatoes, chopping more vegetables and heating water for tea. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been reminded, again, that I was a prisoner. Morag was my warden as well as a fellow prisoner. I told myself, firmly, that I should be grateful I wasn’t actually in jail. Or that my wardens weren’t actually testing their nastier spells on me.

  “It’ll be about two hours until dinner,” Morag said, as I made the tea. She checked the soup and favoured me with a rare smile. I couldn’t help thinking that she would be prettier if she smiled more. “The soup is cooking well. You did a good job.”

  “Thank you,” I said, although I knew she’d done most of it. “Can I try something larger next time?”

  Morag laughed. “You’d better learn to walk before you can run,” she said. “But you can try to turn the remnants of the chicken into curry tomorrow, if you wish.”

  I poured two cups of tea, passed one to her and sat on the stool. A hundred questions ran through my head, but none of them struck me as being safe to ask. The things I would have shared with my girlfriends - or Akin - weren’t things I could share with her. She was simply too old, too distant from the main family line, yet … I looked down at the teacup, wondering just how much it mattered. It wasn’t as if we were both in Shallot. Here, we were practically sisters.

  And at least she’s not lording it over me, I thought. I’d been lucky enough not to have older siblings, but I knew girls who had. They’d often complained that their older siblings regularly talked down to them. It could be worse.

  Morag checked the soup again, then poured it into a glass bowl and muttered a spell. The liquid started to spin, the remaining vegetables coming apart; she kept the spell going until nothing was left, save for a thick orange liquid. I leaned forward, wondering just where she’d found the spell. I’d never seen anything like it. Perhaps it was a culinary spell. The cooking itself might be done without magic, although the heating elements were magic, but I couldn’t imagine the cooks not using magic to make life easier. Why wouldn’t they?

  “Very good,” Morag said. She splashed some of the soup into a smaller bowl and passed it to me. “What do you think?”

  I took a sip. “It’s nice,” I said. It tasted like something I’d had back home, but there was something nicer about it. “What is it called?”

  Morag smirked. “I told you. Carrot soup,” she said. “Cooks don’t give their dishes fancy names.”

  We went to work as the clock steadily ticked its way towards six o’clock, Morag issuing instructions as we collected plates, glasses and cutlery and carried them up the stairs. I’d honestly never realised how hard the servants worked, nor how tricky it could be to move food from the kitchens to the dining room. And Morag and I were trying to feed three people, including ourselves. The servants who fed the family, back home, had to work very hard indeed. They didn’t get to sit down and eat with us.

  I scowled as I remembered just how badly I’d treated them, once upon a time. I’d cast hexes on the maids and nastier spells on the manservants … Mother and Father hadn’t been pleased, but they hadn’t made any attempt to stop me. I’d always had the impression that Father had approved, in his own way. Akin’s silent disapproval had had more of an impact than the occasional rebuke from my parents. And … I’d been horrible to the maids. I remembered throwing a tantrum for hours when my personal maid hadn’t been able to find something I wanted. It hadn’t even been something important either! Guilt gnawed at my soul as we sat down at the table and waited for Uncle Ira to join us. Perhaps I deserved exile - or worse - after all.

  And if I hadn’t been so self-important, I told myself, perhaps I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be tricked.

  The roast chicken was lovely, the potatoes done to perfection … but they tasted like ashes in my mouth. I’d been a little brat all my life, whinging and moaning whenever I hadn’t got my way. I wondered, morbidly, just how many times the servants had wanted to slap me, even knowing that it would have gotten them fired or exiled themselves. And I hadn’t realised just how lucky I’d been until it was too late. I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely paid attention to anyone until the dinner was over and Uncle Ira was rising. He’d be gone in a moment and I wouldn’t see him until tomorrow lunch.

  “Uncle,” I said, quickly. “Can we talk?”

  Uncle Ira turned to peer down at me. “I already ordered your books and potions ingredients,” he said, with the air of a man distracted from a far greater thought. He didn’t quite meet my eyes. “And you have enough work to get on with.”

  I felt a stab of annoyance. He could have told me he was sending letters out: I wanted to write to Father, even though I had no way to know if he’d see it or not. But I suppressed my annoyance as best as I could. Snapping at Uncle Ira would get me nowhere. And besides, he had ordered my books. That would make life easier once the books arrived.

  “Morag told me that she visits the nearby town fairly regularly,” I said. “I was wondering if I could accompany her …”

  “Out of the question,” Uncle Ira said. “You will remain within the grounds at all times.”

  His voice left no room for argument, but I tried anyway. “Uncle, I’d be with Morag and completely safe …”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Uncle Ira said. He glowered down at me as if I’d asked for something totally unreasonable, like everything he owned. “And my judgement is that you are not to leave the grounds. Do you understand?”

  “But …”

  “That will do, young lady,” Morag said, sharply. “You have your answer.”

  Uncle Ira turned and swept out of the room, closing the door behind him. I sank back into my chair, feeling hopelessly trapped. I was a prisoner. I’d known it, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until now. I might not be behind bars, yet … I was trapped.

  “I’ll clean up here,” Morag said. I half-expected her to give me lines to write. She sounded as irritated as Sandy had when she’d told me to write five hundred lines for some long-forgotten offence. I’d hated it at the time, but it seemed petty now. “Go to your room. And don’t let me see you until tomorrow morning.”

  I tried to think of an answer, but nothing came to mind. I was a prisoner and I knew it and … and I was trapped.

  “Yes, Senior,” I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  I walked back to my room, closed the door and lay on the bed, trying desperately not to cry as rain beat against the windows. The thought ran through my head, time and time again; I was a prisoner, I was trapped, I was at the mercy of two adults who didn’t care about me very much … I wanted to scream, but I knew it would be futile. Tantrums wouldn’t get me anywhere at Kirkhaven Hall.

  If anyone hears, I thought. The hall was so quiet that I was half-convinced the wards were muffling everything. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had crafted wards to dampen sound. Back home, Father had made sure that none of our childish games on our floor could disturb his important guests. I might be screaming at
nothing.

  I rolled over and stared up at the cracked white ceiling. The grounds were vast, but they were still part of a prison. And there was nothing to do … I wanted a horse, I wanted games, I wanted … I wanted to able to come and go as I pleased. But I hadn’t had that, even back in Shallot. My parents had always insisted that I wasn’t allowed to leave the hall without supervision. I would have traded everything I owned if it meant I could travel the world without impediment.

  And I’m the lucky one, I thought. I had no idea what had happened to the older conspirators, but I was fairly sure they’d been beheaded. They’d been on the wrong side, after all; they’d exposed themselves as traitors when it was too late to walk it back and claim to have supported the king the whole time. I’m just in prison. They’re dead.

  I tried to tell myself, again and again, that I was lucky. It was true. And yet, I didn’t feel lucky. The moments of insight I’d had didn’t really help when the bars of my prison were as strong and solid as ever. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere for me to go. The rain splashing against the window was a grim reminder of what would happen if I was caught in the open. I’d be drenched to the skin before I got five metres. And then … I suspected Uncle Ira and Morag wouldn’t care. They’d probably be relieved if I caught cold and died.

  He did say it was unusual for magicians to get ill, I reminded myself, as I stood. I’d probably just get wet.

  I walked over to the window and peered out. It was growing darker, the light fading away as the sun - already hidden behind the clouds - sank below the horizon. I snapped my fingers at the lantern, then slowly started to change into my nightclothes. They might have been so badly out of fashion that anyone who’d dared wear them in the dorms would be an instant laughingstock, but at least they were warm and roughly my size. I blessed the mystery girl who’d left them behind, decades ago. I had no idea who she was, or what had happened to her, but she’d probably saved my life. If I ever got home, I told myself, I’d look her up and light incense at the shrine in her memory. Who knew? Perhaps she was still alive.