A Shadow Bright and Burning (Kingdom on Fire #1)(22)

“History and mathematics, mainly.”

“No French or music?” Magnus said.

“I didn’t excel at those subjects. I don’t enjoy literature or poetry, either, really.”

“What? Those are some of life’s chief pleasures.” I didn’t think Magnus was trying to bait me. He seemed curious.

“I’m not interested in what’s pleasant. I’m interested in what’s useful,” I said. Blackwood lowered his paper and looked at me. Something about his gaze was unsettling.

“Are you a good judge of what’s useful?” he said. By his expression, he clearly disagreed.

“I like to think so. Yes,” I said, pulling my shoulders back. “Do you doubt it?”

“I think that you feel things very strongly.” He returned to his paper. “And emotions often cloud better judgment.”

I wanted to rip his paper away, but I knew that would be proving the point. Instead, I aggressively drank my tea. Two months of this would feel like a lifetime.



“Anyway,” Magnus said slowly with an annoyed glance at Blackwood, “is that why you never went for a governess position? Your love of what’s useful?”

“That, and the other thing.” I looked into my porridge, toyed with it.

“Setting fires?”

“No. Well, not only that. Rook. Taking a position would mean leaving him behind.”

“I doubt he’d have wanted you at Brimthorn forever on his account,” Magnus said.

“No. He did not.” There was silence. When I looked up again, I found Magnus staring at me across the table, wearing a troubled look.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” I asked.

Magnus started, then glowered at me. “I have to imitate you, Miss Howel, until you give us a smile.” He replicated my expression so exactly that I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop the laughter. He winked.

Blackwood folded his paper. “Magnus, if you’re finished, perhaps you can report to Master Agrippa in the obsidian room. The day’s lesson should begin after breakfast.”

Magnus put his hand to his heart. “Dear God. Has Lord Blackwood deigned to speak with me? Is anyone paying attention to this historic moment? Will there be commemorative dishware?”

Blackwood closed his eyes and sighed. “Please get ready for Miss Howel’s lesson.”



Magnus pushed back from the table and whistled as he left the room. Blackwood took a final sip from his cup. “Shall we, Miss Howel?”

As I rose, Dee said, “You really should name your stave, you know. Names give one a bit more control over something.”

Bemused, I picked up my stave as I put my spoon back in my empty bowl. “Perhaps Porridge?” I said, grinning.

To my surprise, the carvings glowed with blue light.

“Oh no!” Dee said. “You should’ve given it a grand name. What’ll it say in the history books? Miss Henrietta Howel, the savior of England, and her stave, Porridge?”

I felt the pulse again, almost like a heartbeat. Somehow I knew the stave was pleased. “I think it’ll look quite nice in the books, actually. Porridge it is,” I said, and left with Blackwood for my first lesson.

We walked down the stairs, past curtsying maids and bowing footmen. I kept half curtsying in return, still not sure how to behave. Blackwood acknowledged everyone with ease. He kept his chin up, elegant with his smooth black hair and those strange green catlike eyes. I was sure he thought me graceless. I hoped my training wouldn’t require us to spend too much time together.

“Miss Howel.” He stopped. “I would like to ask something.”

“Oh?” Damn, I really didn’t fancy a private conversation with him.

“May I see your stave? I wondered at a certain design.”

I gave Porridge to him, a bit reluctantly. He twirled it in his hands, a frown creasing his forehead.



“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I would have thought the decoration would be a flame, given your obvious gifts in that area. Instead, it’s tendrils of ivy. That’s a—” He paused.

“A what?”

“A rare insignia.” He handed Porridge to me. I was relieved when it was back in my hands. I didn’t know another person touching one’s weapon could feel so uncomfortably intimate. We continued toward the training area. He kept his hand on his own stave in its sheath, protecting it, as though I might reach over and snatch it without warning.

—

MY HEELS CLICKED AS I ENTERED the training room, and the catch of breath in my throat echoed throughout the space. I knew that sorcerers called their training areas obsidian rooms, but I’d never dreamed of this.

The room was eight-sided, each wall a shining, polished obsidian. Within the walls, strange glowing symbols appeared and disappeared. The floor was jet black as well, save for a great five-pointed star carved with that queer, glowing firelight.

Agrippa stepped forward. He wore black robes with pooling sleeves that draped to the floor. The silken fabric spilled over the obsidian like black moving within black. “These are the official robes of a commended sorcerer,” he said. “It’s not necessary to wear them for training, but I like to, for tradition’s sake.” Hopefully, I would receive robes just like these.