A Shadow Bright and Burning (Kingdom on Fire #1)(64)

“You’re more of a sorcerer than I thought,” he mused. “Which is as it should be, if we want you to pass. What say we focus on controlling your gifts? You made progress last time, when you lifted that chair.”

Leave a lesson unfinished? Never. “I’ll turn that teapot into a mouse, to show I can.” With that, I waved my hands and said the words exactly as Hargrove had spoken them to me. Nothing happened. I repeated the words while pointing Porridge. Still nothing.

It went on like this for several minutes. Hargrove uncorked a bottle of gin with his teeth and sat, gulping it down. He drank too much. I attempted the entire thing in French (“And you’ve a fine accent, my cherub. I could listen to you say souris all day long”), and when that didn’t work, I said a few unladylike words and sat down to stare at the little teapot. It was white and chipped at the spout, with tiny roses painted on it. I’d no idea what to do.

I took Porridge in hand again…and I could feel it warm in my grasp, almost like a living thing. It was impatient. I could picture myself drawing forth a mouse from the chiseled confines of a teapot. And in drawing forth, I imagined the sorcerer maneuver that called water from the earth, to be used in cases of dire thirst. I spun my stave clockwise and counterclockwise, and swept it through the air in an arc. The teapot moved slightly. Hargrove stood.



I could feel the words he had taught me on my tongue. Whisker from spout…handle to tail. I completed the maneuver again, and this time, as the sweep of my arm came up, I imagined the teapot tipping over and a little brown mouse squeezing out, and whispered, “Spout to a tail.”

The teapot bulged, then crumpled in on itself. It poured out a great blob of hair and ears, and a moment later, a bright-eyed little mouse with brown fur and bristling whiskers stood on its hind legs and wiggled its nose at us. It pounced from the tabletop and scurried across the floor. The children dove to catch it, but it slipped through a crack in the wall and vanished.

“I did it!” I cried, tossing Porridge into the air in triumphant glee. Hargrove bellowed with laughter, dancing across the room to snatch paper and pen.

“Write it down, exactly what you did. I’ve never seen anything like it.” His wide grin fell as he stared at the wall. “That was my only teapot. Well. Can’t be helped!” And then we returned to singing and twirling around the room. The children rejoiced, jumping to clutch my skirts.

“I want to do another,” I said, breathless.

“Excellent, I’ve just the thing.” Hargrove handed me an empty bottle. “Turn that into a teapot.”

—



SOON AFTER, HARGROVE WAS POURING US cups of gin-flavored tea. “Little magic mule, that’s what I’ll call you. A delicate hybrid of both races.”

“Do you think I’m the only one?”

Hargrove grunted. “Don’t imagine yourself so special. I know for a fact you’re not alone. There’ve been sorcerer children born as you are, and magician children as well. You’re simply in a unique position to realize both halves of your talents.”

“How many did you know like me? I mean, back when, well…”

“Back when it was legal to be a public magician? One or two. They’re dead now, of course. Caught training apprentices.”

I shuddered to think of it. “Bloody Howard Mickelmas. It’s his fault we have to live like this,” I said. Hargrove merely shrugged and poured himself some gin. “What was he like?”

“Mickelmas? Why?”

“You’re the first person I ever knew who met him. Was it always clear he was evil?” I asked. Hargrove made a face.

“He was just a proper magical bloke. Bit stupid, of course, but if we executed for stupidity, there’d be no one left to walk the planet.”

“What did he look like?”

“Don’t know. We never saw his face at Guild meetings. He’d send a raven or a cat. It would sit in the center of the room, and he’d talk through it. Great party trick. Used to consider him daft, but now no one knows what he looks like. Probably how he’s survived all these years.” He gulped more tea. “I don’t like talking about him, if it’s all the same to you. Irritates me.”



I understood his feelings. “Could my father speak through animals?”

“Nope, just the old set-yourself-on-fire routine.”

“But he could play with fire. Isn’t that a sorcerer trait? Don’t you think it odd that a mixture of the abilities can exist in one person?”

He snorted. “Lord, it’s as if William Howel rose from the dead and returned to lecture me in a dress. That’s a dreadful image.”

“My father asked the same questions?” I leaned forward.

“Yes, and arrived at the staggering conclusion of nothing.” He sighed. “William had such hopes for magic in England, insane, irrational hopes. He wanted a consortium.” He put his thumbs and index fingers together to fashion a triangle. “Witches, sorcerers, and magicians, all on the same level. All in service of the crown. All equal.”

“Why?” I was eager. Before our lessons, all I’d had of my father was a half-remembered picture on my aunt’s fireplace.

“Because of his belief that all magic comes down in a straight line. Witches, sorcerers, magicians.”