He picked up the two halves of his broom with a pang and sprinted the rest of the way. On foot, the trip took longer. He had no tithes for speed. Vatii’s feather had been a stroke of luck, but it wouldn’t make him faster.
The Rede took place on Gallows Hill at an old hanging tree. It stood at a crossroads on a grassy knoll, surrounded by the shopfronts of Wishbrooke high street. The twisting boughs of the old beech looked incongruous, haunted, a piece of grim history preserved amongst the traffic of modern society. Someone had erected a barrier to protect against the rain. Briar arrived to find the crowds of witches and their family members dispersing. His legs shook too much to get up the hill at more than a jog. At the outpouring of people, his hopes gave out before his legs.
He’d missed it.
The implications didn’t register. Inexplicably, he hoped Celyn wasn’t near to see him soaked in sweat and rain and dismay.
He staggered through the crowd. He had to catch the head seer—she announced everyone’s placement. He’d wallow in disappointment that he missed this rite of passage later.
Under the hanging tree, which was bedecked in emerald banners traditional for the Rede, stood the council of master witches. Briar couldn’t spot the pointed green hat of the head seer. Fighting hopelessness, he raced the rest of the way and skidded to a stop before the council.
“Where has the head seer gone?”
The masters startled, looking at him, perplexed.
“I beg your pardon?”
The words came tumbling out. “I missed the Rede. I’m sorry, but it was an emergency. I had to get a prescription, and the apothecary closes early Sundays, and my broom broke on the way back, so I missed it, and I don’t know where I’ve been placed.”
The witches all looked at one another like chickens, clucking and bobbing their heads in confusion. Perhaps no witch had ever missed such an important rite before.
Derringer, Master of Enchantments, cleared his throat.
Briar’s encounters with Derringer were numerous and unpleasant. Numerous because, given Briar’s aptitude for spellcraft, he’d worked under Derringer more than any other master. Unpleasant because Derringer had an aura like a funeral dirge. Briar had first met him on initiation day, when all apprentices were paired with masters. Despite Briar’s talent, Derringer always found fault in his achievements. When Derringer caught him doing work on behalf of the other apprentices for quick cash, he’d threatened to drop Briar as an apprentice if he was caught again.
It narrowed his dwindling earning potential. Living in Wishbrooke wasn’t free, and his apprenticeship ate the hours he could work a paid job, so he needed the money however he could come by it. Every encounter with Derringer felt like a misstep, and this was no different.
“Seer Niamh left on pilgrimage to recover her strength after the Rede,” Derringer said.
Briar persisted. “Then did any of you hear where my placement is?”
“Unfortunately, Niamh divined a placement for you. A special circumstance. We weren’t privy to the details.”
Though the word “special” sparked Briar’s hopes, Derringer’s obstinacy chafed. “What’s the use in that? Why are we deciding my future by divine tea leaves and loose teeth? What was the point of working hard as an apprentice if my destiny is chosen by a doddering old—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Wyngrave!”
“—woman who can’t be bothered to ensure I get my placement before she portals off?”
Derringer bristled with all the unprofessional things he’d likely say if his colleagues weren’t watching. Briar didn’t care. He’d put every penny he earned into this. He’d missed social events, holidays, and plenty of meals in order to fit his work in between magical study and the odd job to keep him afloat. He’d paid for it in debt and stress and sleepless nights.
His mother’s dying wish had been that he follow his dreams.
Heneededthis placement.
The master of potions raised a placating hand. Briar had worked under her only briefly, and though he had no special talent for potions, she’d always been kind to him. “It’s possible you could get in touch with Seer Niamh personally.”
“What’s her number?” he asked.
She looked pitying. “Niamh does not have a phone. You’ll have to reach her by SoothSight.”
“I don’t have any—”
“I have ghost orchid pollen I can lend you. If the other masters approve?”
Most nodded their agreement, but Derringer took his time answering. Briar had met his ilk before. From shop managers to teachers, there was a sort of person who enjoyed lording their power over those from whom they stood to lose nothing by helping.
At length, he said, “Fine.”
