The Copper Gauntlet (Magisterium #2)(10)

No one cared unless Aaron was involved. Perfect Aaron, in an even crisper suit than the one Jasper was wearing and a new, stupid-looking haircut that meant his hair was falling into his eyes. Call noted with some satisfaction that there were dirty paw prints near one of the fancy jacket pockets.

Call knew he shouldn’t feel the way he did. Aaron was his friend. Aaron didn’t have any family, not even a father who was trying to kill him. It was good that people liked Aaron. It meant that Havoc got to stay at the party and that someone would probably lend Call thirty dollars without much fuss.

When Aaron grinned at Call, his whole face lighting up, Call forced himself to smile back.

“Why don’t you find your friend some party clothes?” Tamara’s mother said, with an amused nod at Call. “And, Stebbins, do go pay for the taxi he came in. It’s been idling by the gate for ages now.” She smiled at Call. He wasn’t sure what to make of her. She seemed friendly and warm, but Call thought there was something about her friendliness that wasn’t quite real. “But hurry back. The glamours start soon.”

Aaron shooed Havoc toward the house. “Call can borrow some of my clothes,” he said.

“Yeah, come tell us what happened,” Tamara said, leading the way. “Not that we’re not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Why didn’t you call to say you were coming?”

“Is it because of your dad?” Aaron asked, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Yeah,” Call said slowly. They walked through the huge glass doors and through a marble-tiled room filled with rich, jewel-colored rugs. As they climbed up a ridiculous, marvelous ironwork staircase, Call spun out a story about how Alastair had forbidden him to go back to the Magisterium. That part was true enough; Tamara and Aaron knew Alastair had always hated the idea of Call going to mage school. It was possible to embroider it until it became the reason they’d had a big fight and even the reason that Call had been afraid his father was going to lock him up in the basement and keep him there. He added that Alastair hated Havoc and was mean to him, for extra sympathy.

By the time he was done, Call had almost convinced himself it was true. It seemed like a way more believable story than the truth.

Tamara and Aaron made all the right sympathetic noises and asked dozens of questions so that he was almost relieved when Tamara left so Call could change. She took Havoc with her. Call followed Aaron into the room where he was staying and flopped down on the giant king-size bed in the center. The walls were covered with expensive-looking antique objects that Call suspected Alastair would have killed to get his hands on: big carved metal plates, tiles painted with angular patterns, and framed scraps of bright silk and metal. There were grand windows looking down onto the lawns below. Above the bed was a chandelier dangling blue crystals in the shape of bells.

“This is some place, huh?” Aaron said, clearly still a bit dazed by it himself. He went over to the imposing wooden wardrobe in the corner and swung it open. He pulled out white pants, a jacket, and a shirt, and brought them over to Call.

“What?” he said self-consciously, when Call didn’t move to take them from him.

Call realized he’d been staring. “You didn’t mention that you were staying at Tamara’s house,” he said.

Aaron shrugged. “It’s weird.”

“That doesn’t mean it has to be a secret!”

“It wasn’t a secret,” said Aaron hotly. “There was just never a time to bring it up.”

“You don’t even look like you,” Call said, taking the clothes.

“What do you mean?” Aaron sounded surprised, but Call didn’t see how he could be. Call had never seen him in any clothes as fancy as the ones he was wearing now, not even when he’d been declared the Makar in front of the whole Magisterium and the Assembly. His new shoes probably cost hundreds of dollars. He was tan and healthy. He smelled like aftershave despite not needing to shave. He’d probably spent the whole summer running around outside with Tamara and eating really balanced meals. No pizza dinners for the Makar. “Do you mean the clothes?” Aaron tugged at them self-consciously. “Tamara’s parents insisted I take them. And I felt really weird wandering around here in jeans and T-shirts when everyone else always looks so …”

“Rich?” said Call. “Well, at least you didn’t show up in your pajamas.”

Aaron grinned. “You always know how to make an entrance,” he said. Call figured he was thinking of when they’d met at the Iron Trial and Call had exploded a pen all over himself.

Call took the new clothes and went into the bathroom to change. They were, as he had suspected they would be, too big. Aaron had a lot more muscles than he did. He settled for rolling the sleeves of his jacket up practically to his elbows and running wet fingers through his hair until it was no longer standing up in crazy spikes.

When he came back into the bedroom, Aaron was standing near the windows, looking down at the lawn. There was a big fountain in the middle of the grass and some children had gathered around it, throwing in handfuls of some kind of substance that made the water flare up in different colors.

“So you like it here?” Call asked, doing his best not to sound resentful. It wasn’t Aaron’s fault he was the Makar. None of it was Aaron’s fault.

Aaron pushed some of his blond hair out of his face. The black stone in the band on his wrist, the one that signified that Aaron could work chaos magic, glittered. “I know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t the Makar,” he said, almost as if he knew what Call had been thinking. “Tamara’s parents are nice. Really nice. But I know it wouldn’t be like this if I was just Aaron Stewart from some foster home. It’s good for them, politically, to be close to the Makar. Even if he is only thirteen. They said I could stay as long as I liked.”