"Now, you’ve proven yourself a strong absorber, but I also hear you have the ability to give, which is rare. Most absorbers can only absorb. Your goal while you’re here is to fully tame both sides of your magic. This will include using the Shield Charm, Membrane Charm, and other advanced spells."
I thought about mentioning that Alastair and I had already started working on some of these spells, but I didn’t know what Alastair was and wasn’t supposed to be sharing with me, so I held my tongue.
"You will be required to do some background work, but most of your time will be spent on practical work, since," and here she tapped the file, "it seems you enjoy that type of training."
"This isn’t going to involve cleaning windows, is it?" I asked, thinking of all the practical work experience I’d gained during my lessons with Lola.
"Not unless you’d like to volunteer with the Historic Royal Palaces. No? Didn’t think so. Now, the first thing to know before we start is that you have two opposing forces in your magic. If you find a balance, neither can take over. However, thanks to the watch, your absorbing is so strong right now you’re a risk to other Magics. But there is a caveat: If you control your absorbing side too much without gaining balance and control, your poles will, let’s say, flip." She turned her hand from palm down to palm up. "Your giving side will be your stronger aspect. Magic will quite literally flow out of you and into whoever is nearby. Good for them, not so good for you. And with both the Mauvais’s and the watch’s power in you, not so good for Magics as a whole."
A knot that had nothing to do with the six thousand grams of fat I’d just ingested formed in my gut. Had Alastair been teaching me how to control my absorbing side in order to strengthen my giving side? Was he trying to make me magically incontinent? Before I could stroll too far down the adult diaper aisle, Olivia continued.
"The first order of business will be teaching you to easily switch back and forth between giving and absorbing. It’s a challenging exercise, but once mastered, it makes balancing your two sides come as naturally as walking."
I was about to comment that I was a certified klutz and walking didn’t always come naturally for my long limbs, but before I could speak, Olivia had placed a beaker full of what, I kid you not, looked like the night sky, complete with galaxies whirling around inside.
"What is that?"
"The universe, but only a small portion of it."
Of course it was. Silly me.
She continued on without hesitation or explanation as if everyone had a five-hundred-milliliter jar of the universe stashed in their desk drawer. "Now," she said, pointing at the beaker, "absorb."
This was easy, I barely gave a second thought to the command before several grain-of-sand sized stars zipped out of the jar. They flew toward me and stuck to the skin of my arm. I froze, holding as still as possible.
"I didn’t just kill an entire alien species, did I?"
"No, this section of the universe has been certified to be a dead zone. Now, give."
This took more concentration, but it was something I had been practicing with Alastair even if he didn’t know it. Whenever I noticed him starting to look weary, I’d try to put some magic back into him. Unfortunately, as Olivia pointed out, I wasn’t a natural at giving and doing so required me to squint my eyes and strain with the effort. Alastair may have felt better after I gave him these secret boosts of magic, but he probably wondered if I had unresolved gastro-intestinal issues.
With Olivia watching me, I squinted at the stars on my arm. I pinched my lips, tensed my arms, and balled my fists, picturing myself pushing the magic out of my pores. Finally, the stars lifted a couple centimeters off my arm, but they fell back the moment I dared to congratulate myself.
"A good effort," Olivia said in a non-committal way. "We’ll keep at it until you’re tired, then tomorrow we’ll practice finding a way to shield yourself to prevent others from tapping into your magic."
"Tapping into my magic?"
"Yes, it’s not an easy feat, but a clever enough Magic could figure out how to absorb from you or pull power from you. We call it tapping in. Much like a maple tree being tapped for syrup. And once a Magic is tapped for the first time, it becomes easier to continue doing so. The tapped power can then be kept or passed on. But with a Shield Spell around yourself, it should help stopper the spigot."
"Is this what other Magics have to learn? Other absorbers, I mean."
"No, but then again, absorbers are rare, and most get training from a very early age so they barely have to think about what they’re doing. It’s like a child growing up in a bilingual household. They can automatically switch between the two languages without giving it a second thought."
So basically, Cassie is not smarter than a magical fifth grader.
We continued on for another thirty minutes after which I could barely think from sheer exhaustion. But I had managed to move the stars a foot closer to the beaker before Olivia finally plucked them off my skin and dropped them back into the container. I guess she assumed they’d just find their way back to their proper place in their respective galaxies.
"You’ve done well," she said after the beaker’s dark sky swallowed the final star. "We still have a few matters to sort out with your schedule. Banna has some ideas of her own, but now that I know Busby and Alastair’s schedules, I’ll need to coordinate everything with Rafi. Why don’t you take a walk around the grounds? The Tower’s still not open to Norms at this hour. Once they start showing up, return here. We should have at least your first few days planned by then."
I didn’t ask why they couldn’t have done their planning last night, or perhaps when they made their politely demanding request that I come to London, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking it. Still, free access to the Tower of London without tourists? I wasn’t about to complain.
17 - MEETING NIGEL
OLIVIA EXPLAINED THE route to get out of the White Tower, and after spiraling my way down another staircase, backtracking along a few hallways, and turning several wrong corners only to end up on what looked very much like the hallway I’d started from, I found the exit — a door on the west side of the building at ground level that Olivia told me only Magics could access. Or see, for that matter.
With relief to be free of the interior maze, I stepped out of the White Tower and into the calm of what might actually become a sunny day. Maybe it wasn’t so stupid to pack those sunglasses.
My phone pinged the moment the door shut behind me, making me wonder if the interior of the White Tower was a no-call-no-text zone like MagicLand. Sent the night before at nine p.m. Portland time, the message had one line of text:
Pablo is settling in well.
This was followed by a down arrow emoji.
I scrolled and nearly cried out in horror when I saw what the arrow was pointing to. It was a picture of Pablo. Dressed in a cowboy hat. A pink cowboy hat.
I would have demanded Mr. Tenpenny take me home immediately so I could save my cat from this feline embarrassment, but Pablo had a look of proud contentment on his face that I’d only ever seen once after he extracted the treat bag from its hiding place, tore it open, and ate the entire contents.
I texted back a smiley face emoji and hoped that was the end of Pablo’s fashion show.
After slipping the phone back into my pocket, I strolled over to Tower Green. Once I’d taken in the execution site memorial where Anne Boleyn had a little taken off the top, I wandered to the nearby Chapel Royal of St. Peter in Chains where Anne’s bones and those of a few other historic royals rested.
I paused, taking in the arched windows and letting my imagination roam. What if I could wake up Anne? What would be her final desire she would want taken care of? Would it be to clear her name? Would it be an uncontrollable urge to run about slashing all the portraits of her wife-murdering husband, Henry VIII? You can bet she wouldn’t waste her borrowed time grabbing a bouquet
of bacon. Still, she might at least get the vengeful satisfaction of knowing her daughter, Elizabeth I, showed everyone a thing or two by becoming one of the most famous royals in English history.
A chill crept along my arms. Likely a breeze coming in off the Thames, I thought, then wondered if it was worth the stair-climbing effort to head back inside and grab a jacket.
"This chapel, St. Peter in Chains, was built in—"
A squeal of fright escaped from me and, I’m not exaggerating, I jumped back three feet, clutched my hand to my heart, and wished I hadn’t left my baseball bat behind at Mr. Wood’s. Okay, not the expected reaction from someone who has befriended the dead and fought an evil wizard, but it had been eerily quiet and I had been thinking about zombie queens.
What stood before me, looking just as taken aback as I probably did, was a white man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. Other than a slight middle-age paunch, he appeared fit. Although with his heavy, knee-length overcoat that was black with red trim, evaluating his frame with any precision proved a challenge. On his head perched what looked like a squat top hat, also black, also trimmed in red. Emblazoned across the chest area of his coat was a crown and the Roman numeral II flanked by the letters E and R. Which, no, does not stand for Emergency Room.
"You scared the life out of me," I said, my heart pounding against my palm.
"Apologies, I do forget how quiet I am these days." This was a Yeoman Warder, also known as a Beefeater. I knew they guarded the Tower and served as tour guides. I also knew they had to have quite a few years of exemplary military service under their belts to apply, but I hadn’t heard anything about them being trained in stealth. "Would you like a tour?"
"I don’t think I have time. I’ve only got until the gates open."
"Then, let’s get started. We’ve got enough time to do the tour from here to the raven enclosure."
I assumed his time was limited because the selfie-stick-wielding hordes would soon be flowing in, but it seemed he might have better chores to tend to, or at least not want to start in on a spiel he’d have to give several times over the course of the day. But as he encouraged me to join him, his bright eyes spoke of someone who really liked his job. He carried on a couple paces ahead of me. As I caught up, I glanced down at his feet.
And then froze in place.
Before I could speak, the raven from the conveyor belt, the one with the white eyebrow, swooped down and landed on the warden’s shoulder.
"Well hello, Winston." The bird rubbed its beak against the brim of the man’s hat. "Did you enjoy your trip to the Edinburgh community?"
"What are you?" I asked.
"Oh, how rude of me. We’re supposed to give our names at the very start of the tour. I’m Nigel Knighton. And this is Winston."
Winston hopped onto Nigel’s hat, then with a quick flap of his wings, soared over to my shoulder. The bird weighed more than I expected, and his claws dug through my shirt and into my skin as he balanced himself. If I wasn’t distracted by Nigel, I might have given a hearty, "Arrghh, matey."
But I was distracted. Nigel's feet were most definitely not touching the ground.
"No, not who. What are you?"
Nigel stood at attention, floating feet held tightly together, chest puffed out, chin tilted up. "Yeomen Warder of Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London, and Member of the Sovereign's Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary." Then some of the air deflated from his chest, his chin tucked down, and he pulled off his hat. "Or, at least I wanted to be. I kept failing the test. Then, well, it became too late for me to qualify."
"Too late?" I asked warily.
"Yes, well, death does tend to make you a less desirable job candidate."
Oh crap. Where did they keep the dead Beefeaters? I racked my brain. I knew they had a doctor on the premises, but surely they didn’t store corpses on the grounds of the Tower. Or did they? Had I gone and taken my Waking Dead Tour international? Winston hopped back over to Nigel and rubbed his beak against Nigel’s chin almost as if comforting him.
"You died?" I asked, proving there were stupid questions.
"Yes, about twenty-five years ago. But I quite like it here and the living Yeoman Warders do need to sleep, so they allow me to guard the Tower at night. During the day I’m free to do what I like as long as I don’t scare anyone. Although some of the other Yeoman Warders do ask me to play tricks on particularly rude visitors. But for the most part, I’m to stay out of the way of Norms." He paused, suddenly unsure of himself. "You know about Norms, yes? I hope I haven’t bunged things up before the gates even open."
"No, you’re fine. I’m a Magic."
"Ah good, thought I detected something on you."
Twenty-five years. I know I had just been contemplating the bones of Anne and her queenly friends, but even with my new super powers, I was pretty sure I couldn’t wake people who weren’t freshly dead. I’d even tested this theory one evening by heading over to the nearest cemetery to my apartment. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the smartest test. After all, if I had woken up all the in-ground residents, mayhem would have ensued, or at least a remake of Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" video.
Luckily, no matter how many graves I walked past, no one woke up from their long nap. I wasn’t sure what the exact timing was, but my not-so scientific inquiry proved there was a cut-off period between time of death and my being able to return the dead to a more lively status.
"So, would you like the tour?" Nigel asked. He sounded so hopeful, so eager, how could I refuse?
"Sure, but just a short one. Olivia told me to be back before the gates open."
"We certainly can’t do much of a tour in that amount of time. Are you sure you have to go back so soon?"
I shrugged. "I better do as she says."
"Well, we’ll have to make do, won’t we. Come along."
And so I came along. And I soon discovered why Nigel had failed his test so many times. While he did have an engaging style of delivery, he kept messing up his history. He had Richard II becoming imprisoned some time after Richard III supposedly killed the Princes in the Tower. He had Elizabeth I facing down Oliver Cromwell. And he wasn’t quite sure if Lady Jane Grey had been married to Henry VIII or not (she hadn’t been).
With every mistake, Winston shook his head and turned back to look at me as if to make sure I wasn’t really believing all this.
It was a relief when, once we reached the ravens’ enclosure, an announcement was made that the Tower was opening for the day. I thanked Nigel for the tour.
"We can do another one later today," he offered. "The Wall Walk is my speciality."
"I’ll have to see what my schedule is like. I might have another lesson with Banna," I said, vaguely grabbing at the first name that popped into my head. "Do you know Banna?"
"Yes, well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but we don’t get along," Nigel said, almost apologetically, but Winston snapped his beak with a vicious clack.
"Why?"
"Do you know, I can’t recall. Avoiding her just seems to have become a habit."
"She does take some getting used to."
"Quite. But I do love giving tours, so if you can, I’ll meet you at Tower Green this afternoon. Cheers."
"Right, cheers," I said. Before hurrying off, I glanced at Winston and I would swear he was grinning at my expense.
18 - YOU DID WHAT?!
WHEN I RETURNED to Olivia’s office, I thought about bringing up my encounter with Nigel, but didn’t want to risk getting him fired — or would it be exorcised? — for spreading bad history. After a polite greeting, Olivia handed me a sheet listing where and when my classes would be for the day.
I rolled my eyes when I saw my next lesson would be in room forty-nine, seven doors down from my own room. Yep, it was another trip up the stairs for Cassie. If nothing else, I’d be leaving HQ with improved cardiovascular fitness.
It wasn’t. It was Alastair. My cheeks, already warm from the climb, burned a little hotter. He smiled and stepped aside to let me in. He’d somehow managed to book himself a double bed, whereas I’d only gotten a narrow, single bed, but in every other aspect his room was an exact twin of mine. Whoever had turned the hidden rooms of the White Tower into lodging must have formerly worked as an interior designer for Best Western.
The Uncanny Raven Winston Page 12
