Page 8 of Hawk & Sparrow

I was right. He’s a year older than me. Vesper made another note before looking up. “What led you to host tonight’s exhibition?”

“Technically, my family’s foundation hosted it.” Maximilian sounded bored now. He was holding some of the maze’s tiny purple lights loosely in his hand, letting them dance between his fingers.

“And do you represent your family’s philanthropic interests often?”

“I don’t have a choice,” he said. “My parents are dead.”

Vesper cringed. Maximilian had used the same too-nonchalant tone that she used when she was asked about her dead parents. It was an odd thing to have in common with him, not that they’d ever bond over it.

“One last thing.” Vesper turned a page in her notebook. “I’d love to get a comment from you about the Gladwell Machine.”

Maximilian looked up. “What kind of comment?”

“I’d like to know what you thought of it.” Vesper worked to manage her rapidly dwindling patience. “What were your impressions after Mr. Gladwell’s demonstration? How do you believe his machine might benefit society?”

The sorcerer tilted his head. “Is this on the record?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be.” When Maximilian’s expression turned skeptical, Vesper straightened. “I’m a professional. If you say ‘off the record,’ I will keep my word.”

Maximilian considered her a moment. “Fine. On the record, you can say that I found Mr. Gladwell’s machine to be a ‘rousing triumph,’ or whatever else you’d like.”

Vesper jotted the quote down. “And off the record?”

Maximilian scowled. “Francis Gladwell is a grifter, and that ‘incantation’ his machine spewed during his demonstration was nothing more than a cheap imitation.”

Vesper stared. “You’re saying that what Mr. Gladwell did wasn’t real sorcery? It looked quite real to me.”

Maximilian waved a dismissive hand. “The sorcery was real enough, but the incantation that machine produced was poorly constructed. On top of that, Gladwell’s Thaumaric pronunciations were badly off. Any trained sorcerer worth his salt would be able to tell that he’s a hack.”

Vesper blinked. “That’s … quite a verdict,” she said slowly. “Most people seemed to be very impressed.”

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, the road to hell is paved with easily impressed people.”

“If you don’t like Mr. Gladwell or his machine, why host this event for him?” Vesper pressed.

Maximilian pinched the bridge of his nose. “The foundation received a letter requesting funding for an exhibition at the museum. The details were vague, but I assure you, had I known what Francis was showcasing tonight, I would never have agreed to it.”

“You’re a formally trained sorcerer,” Vesper pointed out. “Does the idea of other people having the ability to use Thaumaric incantations make you uncomfortable?”

Maximilian scoffed. “Of course it does.”

“Why?” Vesper challenged. “Why wouldn’t you want more people to have access to something that could help them?”

The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “Because Thaumaric is a deeply complex language that requires years of intense study to master,” he said. “Simply saying a Thaumaric incantation without understanding its ramifications is irresponsible. You’re talking about truly extraordinary power.” He looked down his long nose. “And I don’t trust ordinary people with extraordinary power.”

Vesper stiffened. “That’s a rather elitist attitude.”

Maximilian snorted and shook his head. “I don’t know why I even bothered. Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”

Vesper bit the inside of her cheek. Maximilian’s words had cut more deeply than she cared to admit. Maybe it was because she was tired, hungry, and cold. Maybe it was because of the dismissive tone he’d used when he’d said someone like you. But no, the thing that had bothered her most was the look on the sorcerer’s face. It was familiar. She’d seen it on countless men’s faces in this city, every time she dared to take up space in a room they thought she didn’t belong in.

“Thank you.” Vesper didn’t bother to hide the new frost in her voice. “I’ll be on my way now.”

Maximilian looked up. “Where are you going?”

“I have what I need for my piece,” she said. “So, our business is concluded.” She snapped her notebook shut and stowed it in her bag. “Take care, Mr. Kite.”

She turned her back and started purposefully down the leafy corridor. Maximilian didn’t call after her or follow, and she was grateful for it. The more she reflected on their conversation, the more frustrated she became. Of course Mr. Kite hadn’t liked the Gladwell Machine. It had embarrassed him during the exhibition, and proven definitively that sorcerers were no better than anyone else. People like him were more than happy to stop technological advancements, so long as it allowed them to hold on to their power.