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Kadoc wakes to an unfamiliar white ceiling, a vague crick in his neck, and the smell of burning.
It takes a moment for the details to come back to him. Yesterday’s interview, and his subsequent relocation to Wodime’s townhouse. (Which feels like a deceptive word for a place like this; it’s nicer than anywhere Kadoc has ever lived, and it’s not even the family’s main property.) But that doesn’t explain what might be on fire, or why, and he has a sinking feeling that it might be his problem. So he forces himself blearily out of bed, and digs a hoodie out of his suitcase. Then, stretching the tension out of his back, he shuffles off to investigate.
The townhouse’s layout is centred around a large dining-slash-lounge room, with everything else – Wodime’s room, kitchen, bathroom, study, two different guest rooms – splitting off from it. The guest bedroom he’s taken up is directly across from the kitchen, which seems like a good first port of call, and Kadoc pads forward over a carpet that probably costs more than his entire wardrobe. And when he gets there and pokes his head around the corner, the source of the smoke becomes immediately obvious.
“Hello, Kadoc,” Wodime says, very smoothly for a man desperately fanning the burnt remains of something with an oven mitt. “Did you sleep well?”
The kitchen is an expensive one, surfaces of marble and appliances of shining chrome, but the effect is more than a little ruined by Wodime himself. The mess of something that might have been a cake in another life; his seeming nonchalance, standing there fully dressed and still in his long sleeves; and the fact that, when he gives up and strips off his oven mitts, he’s still wearing gloves underneath. But Kadoc’s already been spotted, and that means he has to engage.
“Yeah, I slept fine.” He considers for a moment, then moves a little further into the kitchen. “What happened?”
“I thought I could bake something. To celebrate our new partnership, and you moving in.”
“…Bake something.”
“Then I remembered I had an errand to run this morning, and I thought I would be able to put it in the oven, and still make it back in time. As you can see, I was wrong.”
Kadoc works his jaw, thinking, but he doesn’t know where to start. Though at least now he’s less worried about this whole thing being a joke, and more worried about it being some kind of hidden-camera show. As if some audience, somewhere, is watching him stare weakly at this tableau and laughing. It’s not like he could blame them for it.
“What is it, though?”
Wodime sighs. “It was supposed to have been a treacle tart. Though I was rash in assuming you liked sweets, or baked goods at all.”
He seems thoroughly dejected, even though it’s at odds with the rest of his demeanour, like a dog trying to pretend it hasn’t been kicked. And Kadoc takes a long, hard look at himself, and what he’s prepared to do to maintain his tenuous place at the Clock Tower, and how to balance his desire to stay with his hatred of the idea of ever caving to its elite. And what it means for his safety to live with someone who’s fine with leaving the oven unattended, frankly.
Bracing himself for the worst, and leaning over, he peers at the tart. Now that he’s looking at it properly, it doesn’t seem to have gotten as badly burnt as it could have: the pastry and filling aren’t actually charred black, just a very, very dark brown. When he sniffs the air, there’s definitely still a slight undertone of something treacly. And he’s made worse sacrifices for the sake of his magecraft – even if, up close and personal with something that looks like it’s been used as kindling, the specifics don’t actually spring to mind.
“It looks fine,” he lies. “Are you going to serve it, or what?”
Wodime doesn’t perk up, or anything so uncouth, but he does seem to calm a little. “If you’re sure. Would you like tea with that?”
He’s more of a coffee person, if he has to be anything, but he also isn’t feeling brave enough to test Wodime’s kitchen skills twice in the same morning. “Water’s fine.”
“All right. Then why don’t you sit down, and I’ll join you once everything’s ready.”
So Kadoc leaves him there, and wanders back into the main room. There’s a dining suite there, made out of the same light wood as everything else in Wodime’s home and office, but he’s too restless to feel like sitting. Instead, he heads over to the bookshelves that occupy the entire back wall.
Most of Wodime’s collection consists of books of magical theory, as expected, but it’s a little surprising to see how much of the rest is about history and legend. And the majority of those are Greek mythology: not a world Kadoc’s particularly interested in, and definitely a weird match for someone like Wodime. But then again, considering how many stars and constellations and the like stem from Ancient Greece, maybe that does track. Or maybe the appeal lies in all the stories about half-god heroes, born into greatness, heirs to world-shaking and terrible destinies, in a completely different league to regular humans. He leans in, trying to pick out any titles he might recognise. On closer inspection, it seems like some of the books are even in the original Greek, though that also means he has no idea what they are.
“You’d be welcome to borrow anything that interests you.”
Kadoc wheels to face Wodime, who’s setting a tray down on the table. It bothers him to have been caught looking, mostly because it feels like a terrible vulnerability, but also because he definitely doesn’t know his host well enough to go through his library. “No, I’m good. I didn’t know you could read Greek.”
“I had to spend a long time studying it, but I can. Ancient Greek is… famously difficult, and can seem completely unapproachable for the first while. Though I made it there in the end.”
“I thought you were meant to be a brilliant mage.”
It sort of just slips out, and Kadoc freezes. Though he’s resolved not to trust Wodime, that doesn’t give him a license to be rude, and it doesn’t help that Wodime is also the only thing standing between Kadoc and getting banished from the Clock Tower. But he takes that with remarkable grace, folding himself into a chair.
“I’m a natural at magecraft, not languages. They’re very different skills. And though the Faculty of Archaeology here drills its students in both, that makes them something of an outlier by mage standards.” He gestures to the tray. “Though I digress. Please, sit down.”
So Kadoc does. Wodime passes him a glass of water, a tiny fork, and a plate with a slice of the decidedly crispy treacle tart; he keeps an identical plate for himself, as well as a floral teacup. And he does not, Kadoc notices, get rid of his gloves.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, because he’s already in this deep and he may as well, “but don’t you have better things to do? I mean, aren’t you busy with a thousand responsibilities?”
“Closer to two thousand. My schedule is usually taken up by my own research, and now I need to handle Marisbury’s duties as well. Which involve teaching his classes, attending his meetings, and recruiting for his side project.”
“Then you shouldn’t waste your time eating with me.”
“On the contrary. It wouldn’t be right of me to invite you here, and then abandon you, even if we didn’t have business to discuss. Though there’s no obligation to get to it this soon, of course.”
Wodime breaks off a piece of tart, spears it neatly, and then pops it into his mouth. And Kadoc can’t look away, too morbidly fascinated by the meeting of the unstoppable force of burnt pastry and the immovable object of Wodime’s poker face; but it seems those don’t hold equal power. Wodime crunches his food without flinching, though he does follow it with an unusually long sip of tea. His hand is steady as he replaces the cup on its saucer.
And then, unfortunately, it’s Kadoc’s move. But he’s not yet ready to approach his own treacle tart, so he waits and steadies his nerves. “I don’t mind talking business. Hell, I’ll probably even feel better once I know what you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything, except for you to make the most of your time here. As both a mage and a tourist; it would be a shame if you focused too hard on improving your magecraft, and missed out on what London has to offer.”
“I thought you mentioned finding me teachers.”
“Only if you would like them. And only, as I said, once you’re settled.”
“I’m already settled. I’ve been in London for weeks, going to interviews and spinning my wheels. And I’m ready to actually do things.”
“All right. Then you’ll need this: it’s a letter with my signature, and it should grant you access to nearly anywhere in the Clock Tower.”
Wodime produces a folded paper from one of his pockets, and hands it over. Kadoc skims it quickly: it says more or less just that, confirming that he’s here at the invitation of the acting Lord of the Faculty of Astromancy, and that he should be allowed in any part of any of its thirteen Faculties that isn’t explicitly off-limits. But it also gives him the right to borrow books from any of the Clock Tower libraries, though in his patron’s name. All in all, Wodime seems to be putting a lot of faith in someone he’s known for less than a day, especially considering… well, nearly everything about Kadoc.
“Uh,” he says, unsure whether to be suspicious or weirdly touched, “thanks. What’s next?”
“Well, since you mentioned it, let’s move on to the matter of tutors. And of course, the teachers I’ll be able to find for you will depend on what you want to learn. Though, considering how reliant Marisbury’s project is on summoning, I’d suggest applying particular effort to that discipline. I think I mentioned that I have a certain colleague I’d like to offer the job to, if you don’t mind leaving the decision to me; but you’re welcome to do research and choose someone yourself.”
He doubts there’s enough of a difference between Clock Tower mages for it to matter, actually. Anyone even vaguely important enough for Wodime to know is almost definitely someone Kadoc won’t like; but he really should work on that area of magecraft, if it’s supposed to be his job, and at least Wodime’s recommendation means he’ll probably be getting someone competent. “Yeah, I’ll trust your pick. Tell them I’m ready to start whenever.”
“Wonderful. I’ll contact Ophelia this afternoon, then.”
Ophelia. For some reason, he hadn’t expected Wodime’s colleague to be a woman, even though Kadoc’s met plenty of powerful female mages. Probably because he gives off the aura of someone who can’t talk to women at all, though Kadoc realises the hypocrisy in assuming that. He lets himself wonder, briefly, if colleagues is really the extent of it; and then it occurs to him that there’s something more important worth wondering about.
“But, is she part of this Grail War project? Is that why you picked her?”
“No. She isn’t involved, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention anything to her about it. I might decide to recruit her in the future, but for now, I’d prefer her not to know the specifics. Though I do intend to tell her that you’re here on my account, of course.”
Kadoc Zemlupus, absolute nobody, scouted for a project ahead of a legitimate Clock Tower mage. He unsticks his jaw. “But if she’s good enough to teach me, she must be good enough for this Animusphere thing.”
“It isn’t a question of competence. Ophelia has a bright future at the Clock Tower, and I suspect Marisbury’s project would eventually require her to leave it. I wouldn’t want her to have to make that decision.”
Which actually raises more questions than it answers. Some of them are about this mysterious Ophelia; and many more are about Kadoc, and just what the hell he’s actually signed himself up for. But, though it’s less important than the others, a very different question springs to his tongue.
“But you’re a big deal at the Clock Tower.”
“Reasonably.”
“And you still signed up to work on this Grail War whatever.”
“Yes. You and I are the only members so far, in fact. Well, and Marisbury, though I don’t know how hands-on he intends to be.”
Wodime is entirely calm under the force of this interrogation, and he’s definitely smart enough that he can’t have missed the obvious point. Kadoc huffs in irritation.
“So you’re a powerful and important mage, enough to be an acting Lord of the Clock Tower, and you’d really throw that all away?”
“If Marisbury is planning what I think he is? I would.”
Kadoc drops his fork. The noise of it hitting his plate is deafening, in the quiet of the house and the morning. Wodime drinks his tea, seemingly content to let the silence lapse, as if he hasn’t just said something insane.
That’s a lot to take in. Kadoc turns his gaze to his treacle tart, because at least that might make some sense, but he finds it no more forthcoming. And Wodime might be crazy, but Kadoc still has his pride. He might lose out to Clock Tower mages in terms of power, and bloodline, and most other things worth mentioning; but there’s no reason he should have to lose at everything.
So he picks his fork up, and hacks off the pointy edge of his slice. Not without considerable resistance, though, and he has to bring the force of his whole wrist to bear on it. Then he shoves it in his mouth without looking at it, and bites down.
It’s disgusting. It somehow manages to be hard, and crumbly, and stuck to his teeth all at once. And it mostly just tastes like burnt, with a lingering sweet aftertaste that somehow brings out the bitterness. Kadoc chews for what feels like an eternity. Ignores the ominous crack that resounds from the direction of his molars, prays it’s the cake and not anything important. Then at last, he swallows, and he’s free. But the inside of his mouth still tastes like he’s been licking a fireplace, even once he washes it down with half a glass of water. And once he’s sufficiently recovered, he has to deal with Wodime’s expectant gaze, and the weight of trying not to lie to him.
“I’ve never had treacle tart before,” he manages, which is the only thing he can think of that’s both productive and true. Though he’s not sure this monstrosity counts for breaking that streak, honestly. “It’s… interesting?”
“Thank you,” Wodime says. “That’s very kind.”
Kadoc prods gamely at his tart for a moment longer, then gives up. If Wodime’s own slice, equally charred and miserable, looks no smaller than it did five minutes ago, then he’s allowed to let himself off the hook. Though that decision doesn’t really matter, because the man himself decides to intervene.
“This has been fascinating, but I’m afraid we’ll have to leave things here for the morning. I’ll be late for my meeting if I idle any longer. But please, feel free to stay as long as you’d like. I would hate for you to feel like I’m chasing you out.”
“I think I’ll head off soon anyway. I want to see the Clock Tower libraries, and I should probably get a new SIM for my phone. Since I might be in England a while.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I hope you’ll give me your new number, once you have it. It would be best for us to stay in contact.”
Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Kadoc wonders what he’s doing by letting himself get involved with someone like this. (Though another part of him is just relieved to know that Wodime does seem to have a cellphone, because he had doubted it for a moment there.) But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Wodime stands, and tucks his chair in after.
“I hate to ask this of a guest, especially so early on, but could I ask you to take care of the crockery? The plates and forks can go in the dishwasher, but you can leave the teacup in the sink. I’ll take care of it later.”
“Uh, sure…?”
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but I really do need to rush. I promise I’m not usually so demanding a host.”
“It’s fine. You’re busy, and I’m not. So it makes sense for me to do the chores.”
“That isn’t…” Wodime almost frowns. “You know, I didn’t mean anything by asking. And I don’t want you to misunderstand my motives.”
“I get it, okay. And this doesn’t have to be a whole thing. So go to your meeting already.”
“All right, then. I’ll be on my way. And I hope the day treats you well, no matter what you decide to do with it.” But Wodime pauses on his way out, mulling something over, and turns back to look at him. “Oh, and Kadoc? There’s a spare key beneath one of the flowerpots on the front porch. Under the begonias, I think. It’s yours.”
He leaves before Kadoc can raise a protest, or ask what a begonia looks like, or even decide which of those to do first. Instead, he drops his gaze to the leftovers of their breakfast. To his mostly-uneaten slice of tart, harsh black against the plate it sits on, entirely unwelcoming; to Wodime’s identical piece, a matched pair. He nudges his fork, fidgeting with it just to do something, because he’s suddenly restless. Suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here. And when he glances up again, it’s to find that even the lines of their abandoned cutlery run in silent parallel.