‘How does the proclivity work?’
And Lio, who had never had a little brother, quickly learned how charming an activity it was to give to someone something they could not give to themselves. He was patient in answering Rupert’s questions. (‘Magician is an umbrella term. Not all Magicians are witches, but all witches are Magicians.’ ‘I don’t know. Let’s just hope yours doesn’t smell like bratwurst, or something.’ ‘Your talent is your specialisation. Mine is portals and Theodora’s is wards but theproclivity for magicis the very first spark. Think of it like a burner. The first bit ignites it, but the gas – which is the learning, the runes, the technique – is what keeps the flame alive.’)
Lio had not considered that his choice to apprentice the boy would have any great effect on the rest of the house. One Tuesdaymorning, Lio was eating breakfast at the kitchen table when Dot came in, made her porridge and briskly sat down beside him. Lio was mildly startled. Normally, the young woman ate in her bedroom while studying runes.
‘Good morning,’ Dot forced out in a friendly tone.
‘Good morning,’ said Lio.
Her cheeks were red. She steadily took up the salt and shook it over her porridge. Her short hair quite suited her, Lio realised. In truth, he had found himself a little more endeared to her after she had pleaded with Theodora to let him stay in the tea shop. Lio was about to ask her a question – any inane query would have done to break the terrible silence – when Rupert bounded in eating an apple. The boy paused, staring between the two of them. Lio nodded quickly to the spare chair, and Rupert begrudgingly took it.
‘How is your magic coming, Dot?’ asked Lio.
Dot stared at him.
Lord, was that the first question he’d ever asked her?
‘Slowly,’ said the young woman.
It was odd that Dot’s accent wasn’t more regional. The only Seafarthing-ism, the only Eyreishness she really had, was her habit of drinking her tea without sugar and the copious salt she added to her morning porridge. Lio tried to think of something else to enquire after, perhaps about her home, but nothing came to him that was not pejorative in some way or another, and so he decided to say nothing. He pretended to not notice Dot open and close her mouth several times as if trying to begin a conversation but not knowing how.
Lio ate his toast. Rupert chewed his apple. Dot spooned porridge into her mouth.
All of them were silent until Rupert said, ‘Look, Lio.’ And he placed the apple core in the centre of the table. Then, the boy took out his chalk and wrote a shaky summoning rune right ontothe wood. It was not perfectly done. He had drawn two of the symbols quite shoddily. Yet, Rupert placed his hand down on it and the spell was cast and the apple core wobbled and rolled several centimetres toward him.
‘Rupe, that’s excellent!’ said Lio. Dot stiffened. He glanced at her, suddenly remembering that the young woman had yet to cast a single spell. Dot rose from the table, smiled in a forced way –look at that, she’s trying to be brave– and muttered something about the tea shop as she trotted quickly out of the room, porridge in hand.
Theodora entered the kitchen just as Dot was fleeing.
‘Dorothy?’ Theodora called, but Dot had already disappeared out into the hall. Theodora’s eyes narrowed at Lio. ‘What did you do to her?’
‘Why do you assume I did something?’ asked Lio.
‘Because you haven’t so much as a spoon of social etiquette.’ Theodora glanced at her watch. ‘It’s quarter to eight and you’re not in the tea shop.’
Lio rolled his eyes and stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth.
‘Come on, Rupe,’ said Lio. ‘You’re in the shop today as well.’
As the pair of them unlocked the doors and opened the blinds, Rupert asked, ‘Why doesshe hate you?’
‘Who?’ asked Lio, deadpan.
Rupert smacked him in the arm. ‘Who do you think?’
‘Oh,Theodora! Envy, probably.’
Rupert scoffed at him and shook his head, leaving to fill the kettles with water. All the while, Lio worked and tried to forget the tug of guilt in his belly and the knowledge of what had happened in the forest and how, despite his own anger at the witch, he could never entirely let go of the sadness that came to him whenever he saw her. Because he knew the sadness she harboured. He harboured the same one.
One day, he would stop loving Opal.
One day, he would stop recalling her clever jokes and her talent for swimming and the sound of her voice reading his poems back to him: her gentle encouragement, her praise, which always meant the very world given how scathing she was about everyone else.
One day, he would forget her smell. The feel of her skin. Her eyes, their colour prismatic.
One day, when Acanthi were warded from the city, Lio would take refuge in an apartment of his own. Perhaps he would take up a job at an Alliastran journal of some kind or finally publish something of his own. There had to be a future for him.
Still, he patted the spot where the forged letter sat in his pocket.
