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Chapter Text

He was a lion of a man, peering through his proud mane with cold and calculating eyes, a man who viewed all those he met as either challengers or prey. He paced the room, emphasizing his vastness, his height, intent upon intimidation; his haughty smile bent in periodic disgust. He was off his usual game; he didn’t know quite what to make of the man before him now. A man who was neither challenger nor prey.

Qifrey sat, hands folded upon the wooden table, watching him back.

“Once more, I must stress that this is quite unnecessary,” the lion said, running a hand over his whiskers. “Richehlette is a good student. She has no need to switch ateliers at this stage of her education.”

Qifrey crossed one ankle over the other. Watching. Waiting for the shoe to drop.

“On the contrary, I find it quite necessary,” he said quietly. “Because Richeh has chosen it. That is very much within her right as an apprentice.”

The lion paused before the window, silhouetted against the eerie under-seascape. He hummed, a little growl, a thoughtful rumble. He sought his opening, but he was too proud to attack directly. He slunk around behind instead, down a thorny back road to the gnarled heart of his point.

“I rather wonder about that,” he said. “She never made any complaint to me—to anyone, for that matter—before you and your Watchful Eye…well.” Here came the shoe. The paw? “...‘Interfered’ is rather an implicating term. But not, I would venture to say, an inappropriate one.”

There was a sudden heaviness, a sizzling tension: the lion’s dark confidence grew, his instinctive drive to victimize, to hunt and catch and kill and keep his pride off-limits, well-protected. Qifrey could understand it. From many angles, in fact. He was the same way—with really only one, essential difference.

“Professor,” he said, voice as level as a sheet of ice. “Richeh asked me for help. She has not been coerced. You may ask her herself. She waits in the hall, just outside this room.”

“I’ve no need to ask her,” the lion rejoined, hotly, grasping after his victim’s sudden evasion. “I know my own student. There’s something awfully suspect about this hasty change of heart.”

There was nothing suspect about this man’s claims. They were downright lies. Qifrey ground his teeth. His fuse, short to begin with, now sputtered and threatened to die. He reminded himself: He could not—he would not—be deterred. He was no challenger; he had already won.

“You understand this is, in essence, a formality,” he said, terse with the effort of control. The icy veneer cracked. “Richeh has chosen a new atelier.” MY atelier. “Her decision is final. I merely require a signature.”

Students were free to choose a new atelier at any time. All their credits would transfer; no one could hinder them once they’d decided. This was one law of witches for which Qifrey held great respect. And he knew it was thanks in no small part to his own master’s efforts that the law remained intact, in effect, and safeguarded.

He’d stayed with Beldaruit for a reason.

He reached out a hand and flicked the agreement down the table, toward the lion.

“You can borrow my wand, if need be,” he said.

The lion glared, squirming in his cornered position. Then he roared full-on. In a swirl of salt-and-pepper curls, he drew his wand and inkpot from his belt and slashed his name along the line.

“Very well!” His spittle sprayed the page. “Have the runt! I’ve got the better pick of the litter, anyhow.” Pick of the litter? What the hell does that mean? Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, he crunched the scroll in his fist and launched it at Qifrey.

In one lithe motion, Qifrey stood and caught it. Leaving his chair pushed out, he swept to the door.

“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder. A scoff hit his back.

“Get the hell out of here, you no-account poacher.” The last thing he heard before sealing the cage.

Qifrey turned. Richeh stood in the center of the corridor, trembling and fidgeting beneath the cavernous roof, wringing the folds of her dress in her small and ink-stained hands. Qifrey’s anger rushed out of him, exhaled as from a pair of bellows, and surging gentleness fast filled its place.

“Richeh,” he said, kneeling, smiling for her. “Thank you for waiting. It’s done. That’s the last you’ll see of him.” As far as it depends on me. He extended his hand. “Shall we go home? To my atelier?”

He’d fended off the lion, and he had assumed this would bring her relief. Selfishly, he had even hoped for an answering smile, maybe even a hug. But Richeh only stood there trembling, too close to crying to bear. She nodded a little and kept her head bowed.

Qifrey withdrew his hand. He straightened up. “...Excellent. Please follow me."

The moment he turned, his smile fell with a sickly splat against the floor, sticking to the humid stones, seeping into the cracks. His face twisted into a scowl; his grip tightened around the sullied application.

The lion had called him a poacher. The lion had no idea. If not for this dear child, for the children yet at home—if not for Qifrey’s priorities—Qifrey very well might have made him extinct.

Olruggio saw right away that Qifrey was upset. The man had every technique firing on all cylinders to hide it, of course—talking loudly and profusely, smiling widely, flitting from foyer to fireplace and back as though practicing some kind of frenetic, open-ended dance. But Olruggio had known Qifrey for his whole (remembered) life, before there had been any techniques at all. Olruggio had watched him learn them all and try them out; Olruggio had been the guinea pig for quite a few.

Also…Qifrey just couldn’t really act for shit.

“This is Agott, and this is Tetia,” Qifrey practically shouted. “They are your new atelier mates.” He swept his arm toward the two girls who idled beneath the colorful Welcome banner they’d strung from the ceiling. They appeared too nervous to notice their professor’s mercurial manners. Olruggio watched from the kitchen stairs, arms crossed. A little bit awkward with oven mitts on.

“N-nice to meet you!” Tetia spoke first, of course. She offered a fretful wave, a hopeful smile. The little girl at Qifrey’s side just stared.

“Hello,” Agott said, a little stiffly. But she made brief eye contact; for all her brusqueness, her spirit was genuine. The girl—‘it was Richeh,’ he remembered—kept on staring.

“And over here,” said Qifrey, turning his head and raising his arm, “is someone you’ve already met. Our Watchful Eye, Olruggio.”

Olruggio met Qifrey’s gaze. Qifrey’s smile strained his cheeks, pushing into his glasses; his sparkling eye was as hard as diamond. Olruggio longed to know what all had happened, and Qifrey seemed fired up enough to want to vent…maybe they’d find a moment while the girls got to know each other.

All this transpired in a second or two. Olruggio broke away and found Richeh’s wide blue eyes.

“Hullo, Richeh,” he said, shooting for ‘friendly’ in spite of his worry. “Hope you like seafood stew. I’ve been cookin’ my ahh—my butt off all morning.”

She blinked when he tripped over the curse word. Beyond that, she was quiet. Glued to the spot. Sagging from the weight of her overstuffed satchel.

“I’ve sent for the rest of your things,” Qifrey said to Richeh, glancing at the bag. “They ought to arrive tonight…” He rummaged for his quire and activated a pre-drawn spell. The bag shimmied free of her grasp of its own accord. She gasped and lunged for it, but Tetia skipped toward her, interrupting her panic.

“It’s okay!” she said. “It just makes it lighter and easier to carry!” Her hands rose and fell a few times, like she wanted to hold Richeh’s hand or pat her shoulders; instead, she reached for the bag, tugging it into a lumpy embrace.

“Professor, can I show Richeh her room?” she asked.

“Splendid idea,” Qifrey said quickly. Olruggio caught his exhale of relief. “You and Agott can give Richeh a tour of our atelier. I’ll help Olly finish lunch. Regroup in half a clock mark—how does that sound?”

He definitely wanted to vent. To confide in Olruggio. Olruggio felt at once more worried and profoundly valued.

Tetia gave an awkward thumbs-up around the luggage. Agott nodded—“Yes, Professor”—and rose to the occasion of responsibility. And Richeh, with a gentle nudge from Qifrey, stumbled a few steps closer to the pair. Olruggio didn’t blame her at all for being so nervous. A brand-new place, a slew of new faces—the leering phantom of her newly-dead past.

“We’ll be back soon!” Tetia called over her shoulder, and the girls clomped up the stairs and vanished.

Qifrey’s demeanor shifted in an instant, like a fragment of paper in fire, curling and crumbling. He fought free of his cloak and dumped it in the corner; he marched down the stairs past Olruggio, into the privacy of the kitchen. Olruggio followed, carefully casual, holding his tongue—in such a state, Qifrey needed to go first. And that he did.

“Why in the name of the Wise Ones are some people allowed to teach?! Allowed to even live?!”

Qifrey tore through the cabinets, tossing supplies onto the island for what appeared to be some kind of bread or biscuit. Something he could knead his anger into.

“You mean her former teacher, right?” Olruggio said. He returned to the stove, lifting the soup pot lid, inhaling the concoction. “We knew the guy was an asshole.”

“More than an asshole,” growled Qifrey, dumping far too much flour into a bowl and swearing at the mess. “Dammit! Far more than an asshole—a proper villain. Where’s the oil?”

“Here.”

Olruggio had predicted the question, had grabbed the oil and brought it to Qifrey on autopilot; and now he stood at Qifrey’s elbow, yet oven-mitted, cheeks tinged red. He hadn’t meant to get so close. It startled Qifrey, too, whose hands fell into the flour—sending a cloud of it into their faces.

They coughed and waved the air clear.

“Sorry,” Olruggio said. “A villain?”

“Yes,” said Qifrey sullenly. Some of his venom had fled in embarrassment. He poured a portion of oil into the bowl, avoiding Olruggio’s eyes. “I suppose—I suppose I’m glad that Richeh found her way out. But the way that bastard spoke of his other apprentices—his ‘litter,’ like the children are a pack of dogs to train—horrendous! His whole attitude—I don’t know…”

Qifrey cleared a corner of the island with his forearm, smearing more flour all over himself. He folded his palm quire open and drew a water sigil with surrounding fire signs: warm water for the yeast. He sighed as he closed the ring.

“...I wonder if I’ve done enough,” he murmured.

Olruggio watched him guide the fragile stream into a separate, shallow bowl.

“His other students haven’t asked to leave, have they?” he said, keeping his voice low. Footsteps thudded overhead. The girls upstairs.

Qifrey made a face, pulled tight in desperate irritation. “No. Not that I know of. But would Richeh have asked, if we had not happened to meet her in her hour of need?” He shook his head. “It feels—I don’t know. Too convenient. Incomplete.”

His eye trailed from the bubbling yeast to the disaster of a mixing bowl. He scoffed, vexed with self-recrimination.

“...I’ve done this out of order, haven’t I. What was I even making?”

Olruggio regarded him, his soiled clothes, his dismal visage. Here he was, enacting good deed after good deed—just back from adopting a mistreated child, for god’s sake—and still beating himself up about it. He needed to know—Olruggio needed to tell him, to impart to him somehow, that he was doing a good job. A damned good job. How many years would it take till Qifrey believed him?

Olruggio half-registered the movement of his arms, their drawing of Qifrey into a floury and fishy embrace. It was an impulse, an instinct, the best way he knew how to say ‘I see how hard you’re trying.’ Because he did. And so ought the whole world.

This was a rare occasion (these days) where Qifrey didn’t flinch or freeze or hesitate. He hugged Olruggio right back, with squeezing strength, nuzzling his nose into Olruggio’s shirt.

“I think you do a lot more to help than you realize,” Olruggio said. Indescribably more. Infinitely more.

Qifrey hummed a little. “...I think you mean yourself, Olly.”

Under his hands, Olruggio felt Qifrey’s shoulders flex and spread a little, tugging the tight fabric. Relaxing. Olruggio wouldn’t argue with him about that. Wouldn’t do any good. They were both leaning on one another.

He didn’t want to be the first to let go, but over at the stove, the bubbling pot warned of imminent eruption. He pulled away as gently as he could.

“Gotta turn down the heat,” he mumbled, searching Qifrey’s handsome, world-worn face for residual bitterness. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot. Plenty of flour, though…Olruggio’s lips quirked.

“Is there something on my face?” asked Qifrey sweetly, knowing full-well the answer. Olruggio snorted.

“Well, half of it’s all over my shirt now,” he said. “We’ll make a great first impression for Richeh.”

“Certainly a faithful one,” Qifrey said, and he brought his hand up to his scar and folded it down, then back up—in a “wink.”

Olruggio grinned. Relieved again. For now—they’d be okay.

Tetia could do this! Professor Qifrey was counting on her! She would do her best to help the new girl feel right at home! It was just…kind-of hard to figure out what Richeh wanted.

Well—sometimes Richeh would voice her opinion, usually at mealtimes. If she didn’t like a certain food, she’d blurt out her displeasure. Shy, yet strenuous: She didn’t want celery! Ever! She hated the texture! And honestly, Tetia loved these rare, stubborn outbursts. ’Cause they were the real Richeh. They were clues along the path to her heart!

Tetia would tip-toe into the kitchen during dinner prep and whisper into Professor Olly’s ear: “No celery!” He’d grumble about his shoddy memory—“I’m gettin’ old, Tetia”—and stuff it back into the pantry. Professor Qifrey, from the stove, would smile and thank her for the reminder.

Richeh shared Tetia’s workspace and sleep quarters. Agott liked her privacy, but Tetia quite liked company, so that worked out just fine. Granted, Richeh was not the most talkative company. Okay—she didn’t say much at all. But she seemed to listen to Tetia without growing too irritated, unlike Agott. So Tetia cherished her tolerant presence.

But the Real Richeh emerged in full force during lessons, and it alarmed Tetia the first time it happened.

It was early September, still warm out, and the leaves were only whispering of their plans to turn to gold. The atelier windows were open; a chickadee swung from their bird feeder, munching on seeds between cries to his friends among the branches. Food over here! Food over here! Hard to concentrate on such a beautiful day!

Professor Qifrey asked them to turn to a chapter on container spells. These were spells that used any material, or combination thereof, to create basins, or boxes, or anything that could hold water or food or supplies. He read the introductory paragraph aloud to them, sitting cross-legged on the hearth, his back to the dormant fireplace. Tetia always loved to listen to his voice; it was patient and calming.

“Could you use one to carry acorns?” Tetia asked as he finished, turning from the window. “I’m noticing so many on the ground!”

“The point is, you can use them to carry anything,” Agott huffed, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. She liked to correct Tetia. Tetia didn’t mind most of the time.

“Carrying acorns would be a fine use for a container spell,” Professor Qifrey said. His eyes found the window; his smile brightened. “It’s a lovely idea, in fact. What do you say, girls—shall we hold our lesson outside?”

“Yes!! Let’s go outside!” Tetia pumped her fists in the air, overflowing with excitement. In the act, she accidentally bumped Richeh’s shoulder.

Richeh had been hunched over her practice notebook, drawing the tiniest little circles in a careful pattern known only to her, hand cramped around her wand. Tetia’s bump sent the wand flying; Richeh jumped; her whole desk tilted, and her inkpot tipped over. Jet black conjuring ink spread everywhere.

“I’m so sorry!!” Tetia cried, scrambling to stem the flow, wiping the table with her hem. “Here—let me help you clean it up—”

Tetia began to wrap the soiled notebook in her dress, but Richeh yanked it out of her hands and screamed.

All of them flinched.

“Richeh—” Professor Qifrey reached out his hand. She slapped it away.

“DON’T TOUCH MY DRAWINGS!!” she shouted. And she grabbed her components and ran from the room. Moments later, overhead, a violent SLAM.

In the tense quiet which followed, the pleasant sounds from outside felt entirely out of place. Agott watched the professor, her shoulders drawn, anxiously awaiting direction. Professor Qifrey wrung his hands. His brow furrowed. He seemed upset.

Tetia bit her lip. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she cried out. “I’m really sorry, Professor! It’s my fault—I hurt Richeh—!”

A few tears fell. She covered her face, hating to cry in front of everybody, hating to be sad. Why was she always acting so annoying? She felt so bad.

Then she felt arms around her.

“Please don’t cry,” Professor Qifrey murmured. “Nothing’s your fault.”

Tetia hugged him back. She sniffled and hiccuped and tried to stop crying.

“She just freaked out,” she heard Agott say. “It was just some spilt ink.”

“It’s tough…” Tetia mumbled into her professor’s shoulder. He rubbed her back, imparting reassurance. She knew that she could end the hug whenever she was ready.

“What is?” Professor Qifrey asked.

“I’m trying, but…I just don’t know how I can help Richeh feel at home here,” Tetia said. “I try to talk to her, and remember what she likes, but I…” Her eyes stung with fresh tears. “I don’t know…”

As she spoke, Professor Qifrey nodded in understanding.

“Richeh came to us from an atelier quite unlike our own,” he said. “She needs time to acclimate…to adjust. A lot of time.”

He pulled back a little to offer her a small, melancholy smile. “You work very hard, Tetia. Your kindness is not—is never—in vain. I promise…it matters a great deal.”

Tetia’s heart glowed. She found a smile to return. She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, gathering herself.

“I need to change my dress,” she said. “And check on Richeh. I’ll be right back!”

“Take your time,” Professor Qifrey said, sitting on his heels, smiling still. “We’ll wait for you.”

Tetia hurried up the stairs and down the hall toward their shared room. Up here, sunbeams glittered with even more vigor; it really was a lovely day. A trip outside would surely help cheer Richeh up…she thought.

She hesitated just outside the closed door. Laid an ear against it. Gave a cautious knock or two.

“Can I come in?” she asked. No reply. She tried the handle. The door popped open.

There sat Richeh, hunched over once again, drawing on fresh parchment at her workstation with intense fervor, as though her life depended on completing her seals. It was kind-of like the way Agott got sometimes—super-focused. Tetia wished she was as dedicated as they were.

“Hey, Richeh…” Tetia mumbled. Richeh’s shoulders tensed, but she continued to draw. Tetia fidgeted from foot to foot; she went on timidly:

“I’m sorry I spilled your ink. And took your notebook.” She tugged at her hair. “I promise I won’t touch your things.”

“It’s not mine,” said Richeh. So quietly that Tetia wasn’t sure she’d even said it.

“H-huh?” said Tetia.

“It’s Rili’s present,” Richeh said, and her voice, though louder now, was garbled and suffused with tears. “It’s not mine. It’s Rili’s present. For his birthday.”

“Birthday…?” Tetia was lost. “Uh. W-who is Rili?”

At this, Richeh’s tears bubbled over and poured down her face. She grabbed all of her hair and buried her face in it. She rocked forward and back on her cushion, sobbing.

Tetia’s alarm took second place to her compassion. She rushed to her new friend—her new sister—and pulled her into a tight hug. Richeh hid her face against Tetia’s frock, pressing into her hug, desperate for comfort. Tetia held her until she wanted to let go, as she’d just been held. And after several sniffling, trembling minutes, Richeh told Tetia who Rili was.

That night, Tetia snuck into the kitchen.

“Professor Olly,” she whispered.

“I’m not your professor—” he started, turning from the sink—but when he saw her expression, his eyes widened with concern. He wiped his hands dry on his baggy shirt, kneeling a little. “...You alright? What is it?”

“What’s wrong?” Professor Qifrey peered around the pantry door, likewise concerned. He crossed the room to kneel beside Professor Olly. “Tetia…?”

Tetia looked between them. She didn’t know if Richeh wanted her to tell them. But she just couldn’t bear the thought of Richeh’s brother, frightened, captive—all alone. So she took a deep breath and followed her heart.

“I have to tell you something.”

“This is new,” said Qifrey. With the tip of his hat, he poked the porcelain bowl which gleamed upon the entry table.

“Yes, two years new,” quipped Beldaruit. He was wrapped in a fluffy, silver-lined house robe, with an indigo down blanket wrapped over that. “A birthday gift. Evidently the blue moon has risen this evening, if you have decided to visit.”

Qifrey didn’t grace that with a reply. He massaged the spot above his scar—felt a headache coming on—and strode past Beldaruit into the sitting room. A large, almost aggressive fire roared in the fireplace, pushing thick smoke up the magical chimney, and a magnifying glyph hung from the mantel. Qifrey sank into the farthest-removed chair. His old spot. He undid the top strap of his turtleneck. Even his glasses fogged.

“It’s sweltering in here,” he said. “Are you that cold?”

Beldaruit had settled close to the hearth, practically atop the flames. And Qifrey noticed his wan expression then, framed by limp ribbons of hair.

“I’ve been in better health,” Beldaruit said. “Would you care for tea? I’ll call for some.”

“...If you’re having it,” said Qifrey. Beldaruit nodded; he lifted the enchanted bell.

Qifrey fidgeted, wringing his hands, already sweating. He hated asking for favors. Something something, his whole life was a massive favor from Beldaruit that he’d never make up for, et cetera. Technically, though, this was not for himself. But Beldaruit was ill…this might stress him further.

“How is Richeh faring at her new atelier?”

Qifrey looked up from his hands. Beldaruit watched him, tired eyes shining in that terribly familiar way—a blend of wryness and anxious sincerity.

“...Well enough,” said Qifrey. “My other students help her feel at ease.”

Beldaruit smiled a little. “You wrote that Tetia, in particular, is quite a gifted mentor,” he said. “I was delighted to hear it…it reminded me of how well you cared for your juniors, while you were here.”

Qifrey mainly remembered how often they’d annoyed him. He blushed, all the same.

“Er.” He cleared his throat. “About Richeh. I wanted to ask you—to ask for your help.”

“My help?” Beldaruit perked up. “Do go on.”

“Ahem—well—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of the tea, rolled in on a serving cart, fragile cups shivering against metal. Beldaruit thanked the staff. He gave the tea an expectant look, but his arms were bound up in his blankets; he hesitated.

“I’ll pour it,” said Qifrey. He pushed off from the chair and crossed the room to the cart. “Honey and lemon, right? Two slices?”

“Thank you.” Beldaruit smiled with genuine warmth. “Let us throw caution to the wind and say three slices. I am eager to be on the mend.”

“Mhm.”

Porcelain clinked; silver glinted. The motions and sounds, and the fire’s noisy proximity, helped to quell Qifrey’s nerves. It was likely as calm as he’d get. He held his breath and took the plunge.

“What would it take to revoke a teacher’s license?” he asked, point-blank, handing Beldaruit his cup. Beldaruit wiggled one of his hands free and took it, scrutinizing Qifrey—quite used to the bluntness, just catching up to the subject.

He said, “...Do you fear the revocation of your license?”

Yes. Every day. He was still incredulous that he’d been granted one at all. But that was a conversation for (never) another time.

“No,” said Qifrey, finishing the preparation of his own tea. He settled in the chair nearest to Beldaruit this time, ignoring the heat. “I don’t think Richeh’s old master should be allowed to teach.”

“Ah.” Beldaruit sipped his tea. He winced a little. Qifrey might’ve gone overboard with the lemon.

“Is it possible—” Qifrey frowned, not knowing how to ask. “Since you’re the Wise in Teachings, could you…you have the power to revoke his license, surely?”

Beldaruit considered him. “He must be quite unsavory, if you’ve come to me directly.”

“He is.” Qifrey’s chest tightened. He struggled to restrain himself. “Richeh has hardly opened up, but what she has shared with me—with us—and the man’s behavior when I met him—”

His gesturing intensified. He set aside his sloshing teacup.

“And now I’ve learned her brother is still trapped at that atelier. The ‘special favorite,’ whom the wretched man drags with him everywhere. Like a servant, not a student.” Or worse than a servant. He shivered with rage. Restraint be damned. “It’s vile, Beldaruit! This man should be punished! Exiled! Banned from teaching, at the very least!”

“Your passion is evident,” said Beldaruit, likewise lowering his cup, his measured tone contrasting sharply against Qifrey’s vitriol. “...And possibly quite justified.”

Qifrey bristled, sensing the “however.” He opened his mouth in protest, but Beldaruit held up a hand.

“However,” he said, sure enough. “I cannot act upon any accusation without substantial, tangible evidence.”

“But—”

“And I cannot remove a student from the care of a teacher, unless that student expresses their desire in accordance.” Beldaruit leveled him with a serious look, doubly grim from the gray of his illness. “I am loath to dredge it up…but you’ll recall the many attempts, which I would venture to call traumatic, by others to remove you from my care?”

Qifrey stiffened.

He remembered looming figures, shimmering armor at the doorstep. Hushed conversations around tables. Beldaruit’s raised voice. His anger. He remembered two nights spent locked up at Deepwater Castle—

“Forgive me,” said Beldaruit gently. “You’ve gone as pale as I must be. I only wish to stress that to separate student from professor is no small undertaking.”

Qifrey dug his nails into his knees. Vexation smothered him. He didn’t want it to be too easy. But it should not be impossible, either.

“Isn’t Richeh’s testimony sufficient?” he asked, his voice low, half resigned, half entreating. “If she…if she went before the council—hell, even before you, before the Wise Ones—”

“I wish I could assert with confidence that a child’s testimony would suffice,” said Beldaruit. “But you know as well as I do…the tendency of witches to worship authority.”

He caught the irony; acknowledged it with raised eyebrows and closed eyes. When he opened them again he fixed them downward, upon his tea.

“The professor’s reputation will eclipse the child’s claims…of this, I am almost certain.”

Qifrey glowered at the polished hearthstones, at the reflection of the rippling fire. He knew Beldaruit was right. And it enraged him. But he couldn’t…he couldn’t maintain such rage. How could he be a good teacher to his girls if he was ever in the throes of vengeful fury? It would have to be yet another injustice to drown in, to pin with daggers to the roof of his coffin and tear at with bloodied fingers; to bitterly defy in darkness, through his sleepless nights.

“Your tea will grow cold,” Beldaruit said. Qifrey dragged himself from his dark reverie. He laughed once, without humor. He rubbed his aching head.

“I doubt it,” he said, recovering his cup. “The room’s boiling.”

He stayed an extra clock mark, keeping Beldaruit company till the poorly old man succumbed to exhaustion and had to retire. Who knew when he’d visit again, after all, Qifrey thought to himself as he hastened over spectral, lamplit streets, toward the exit. Any one visit to the Great Hall would always be one too many.

By the time he made it home, the girls were in bed, and his head throbbed so relentlessly that it made him nauseous. He stumbled upstairs in the dark and collapsed into bed, fully clothed. Before he tugged a pillow over his face, he glimpsed the watery light from his window...Olruggio’s workshop. The man never slept. Qifrey would apprise him of his failure tomorrow.

Between dreadful pulses and prayers for sleep, a dazed thought emerged. If Father couldn’t even help…perhaps he and Olly might take matters into their own hands.

…‘Father?!’ Qifrey groaned into the pillow. Time to sleep...no more thoughts. He couldn’t think straight. Or at all.

His commission lay neglected, half-done, pushed to the corner of his desk.  He wrote with a regular pen, on regular paper, squinting in the fizzling lamplight.

Hiehart,

Something’s come up at the Hall.  Would love your help.  If you’ve got the time, let’s meet for lunch tomorrow.  I’ll be down there, anyway.  I’ll fill you in.

Thanks—

O.

Chapter Text

Richeh hid.

Agott noted her absence at breakfast. When lessons started without her, Tetia asked to be excused; she raced upstairs to search their bedrooms. Minutes later, she raced back down in a panic—she dragged Professor Qifrey by the wrist, with Agott following close behind, and had the two of them help her search again.

They clambered through the cluttered space for a few minutes. Then Professor Qifrey called for their attention.

“Ah,” he said, voice low and relieved. “Over here.”

He knelt beside a large, midnight blue pot. With a finger set against his lips—quiet—he beckoned the girls over to observe. Agott and Tetia crept forward. They knelt and bent their heads to peer inside.

Beyond a couple decoy scrolls pinned to the pot’s interior shone an open, airy portal. Faint rustlings and murmurs rose to meet their ears, as though they listened from an attic to the goings-on below.

“She’s drawn spells around the rims. There’s an entire, secret room inside,” whispered Professor Qifrey. His fingers brushed the faint impressions of a hundred dainty, miniscule seals, carved around the bottom rim with momentous precision, like a procession of nobles twirling through a court dance.

Tetia did her best to whisper. “The sigils are so tiny!”

“To craft a whole room, a magical space…it has to be complex magic,” Agott murmured. She pressed her palms against the floor, squinting, stretching her neck for a better look at the seals.

“Yes—quite complex,” said the professor. “I am certainly impressed.” He rose to his feet, cloak bunched in both hands to dampen its rustling. He fixed the girls with a gently imperative look. “But let us refrain from disturbing Richeh for the time being. Shall we resume our lesson?”

“Yes, Professor,” they both answered him. It did not seem up for debate.

The three of them tip-toed out of the room. Agott brought up the rear, glaring straight ahead at Tetia’s bouncing, cotton candy curls. Tetia and Professor Qifrey cast glances over their shoulders, at the pot, at each other. They seemed to understand—to regard Richeh’s episode with the sort of pointed, tight-lipped compassion that people just loved to employ, to flaunt their proprietary knowledge and act superior.

Agott picked at the skin around her thumbnail, worn the past several hours into a sore red. She knew Tetia had spoken with the professors last night. She was the only one who hadn’t heard the full story, but she didn’t have time for gossip. Richeh’s life was Richeh’s business; if Richeh wanted to throw tantrums and miss out on her education, that was her choice. As for Agott, her ambition was too great to abide such inane interruption. Things weren’t always gonna go her way. So what? She wasn’t a baby. She’d work harder until she got over it.

She resumed her seat at her desk. She caught her thumb inside her grip; she lifted her wand with her dominant hand, filling the nib with more ink. Too much time, already wasted.

Honestly, Agott was disappointed in her whole atelier.

“What’s the name of the award, again?”

“The—er.” Shit. What had he called it? Olruggio broke the seal and unfurled the scroll, angling it to catch the undulating light. “The ‘Commitment to Excellence and Success in Scholarship.’ Award. That’s a mouthful.”

“Commitment to Excellence…” Hiehart repeated it under his breath, pressing his tongue to his top teeth in concentration. “C-E-S-S. Cess?” He made a face. “Like ‘cesspool.’ ”

“You got it.”

Hiehart snorted. “Clever as ever, Predis Olruggio! I wonder if he’ll notice.”

“I doubt it,” said Olruggio. His ego will distract him. He hastily twisted the scroll closed again. “Help me reset the seal, would you?”

“I’m always so impressed by your ideas.” Hiehart flipped his palm quire open and drew as they walked, in his casual, almost sketch-like way. It was deceptive: The time-rewinding glyph he held against the scroll was targeted and precise. “And it’s no wonder you were able to persuade the Sage to help you, with your wit and charm.”

Lord Bel’s seal, a curling dragon, steamed as it resettled against the parchment. Olruggio felt his face grow hot. Partly from the flattery that Hiehart always flooded him with…and partly from the fact that he had forged the seal. He’d encountered it enough growing up, stamped onto the piles of missives he received from Lord Bel’s first apprentice before he started using his own (and started sending fewer letters). And if it came down to it, Olruggio would come up with something. Grovel a little; ask for forgiveness after the fact. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yeah,” he said. “Anyway, look sharp. That’s it up ahead.”

The pair of them slowed, cloaks ballooning and settling. Around them, several stately structures rose, their foundations hewn from the undersea bedrock, their spires twisting toward the surface like upside-down roots, craving light and warmth. Maybe Olruggio was projecting. How he'd ever lived down here, now that he knew the sunshine of Qifrey’s atelier…

“That one?” said Hiehart, eyes trained on the spire at the end of the path—gray and imposing, set apart by its banners which hung from the windows, dingy streaks of eggshell white and gold. Banners flanked the stairs before them, too, lifeless as rags in the perpetual stillness of the Hall. Olruggio grunted in affirmation.

“Yep.” He squared his shoulders, turning to Hiehart. “Remember: You chat up the professor. I’ll track down the kid.” He extended the scroll. “Got it?”

Hiehart seized the scroll. He nodded firmly. “You can count on me, Predis Olruggio!”

“Right.”

If Olruggio could do it—if he could just talk to Richeh’s brother for a minute, could get him to speak from his heart—

In unison, they swept their cloaks behind them and ascended.

Olruggio grasped the knocker, a griffin’s head, and rapped it four times. He was nervous. It had only been about a month since he was here last. Although the head professor’s ire had been directed at Qifrey at the time, he would almost certainly remember the stalking, fuming Watchful Eye, glowering at him from behind. He would recognize Olruggio.

That was alright, though. That was alright. Olruggio was well-known, anyway. At least he used to be. Who the hell knew anymore. Now would be a great time for another shot of praise from Hiehart. Do I still got it, kid? Am I still popular? Are you kidding, Predis!! You’re famous! A star!!

“Hello…”

Olruggio started. The door stood half-open; a timid young witch in apprentice robes peered around it. “...Can I help you?”

“Er.” He cleared his throat. “Ah—”

The child flinched, badly; their lank hair fell over their face, and they hid behind it, creeping backward. All this from a cough? Olruggio felt his chest begin to tighten.

“Excuse us!” said Hiehart, unleashing his signature, vibrant smile. “I am Hiehart, and this is my friend and role model, the honorable, inimitable Olruggio of the Torch!” Not the MOST embarrassing introduction, I guess. “We’re here to deliver an award to the master of this atelier!” Hiehart lifted the scroll, and Olruggio heard the gears turn for a split second. “...For his commitment to excellence and success in scholarship!”

The child stared at Hiehart. “An award…for my master?”

“That’s right!” Hiehart said. “Is he available? Could we speak with him?”

The young witch shrank into themself. They dug their fingers into the door. They seemed overwhelmed.

“Hey,” Olruggio said, gently as he could. “What’s your name?”

“Riliphin?” said a voice from inside, coolly, with self-possession. “Where have you run off to?”

The child gasped. Their eyes glazed with terror.

“Is that you at the door?”

“I should not have answered it,” the child whispered, not to Olruggio or Hiehart, not to anyone. To a god, maybe. Begging for pardon.

“Wait—” Gears turned again, this time in Olruggio’s mind. The pale blue hair; the eyes; the fear. The absolute dread at the sound of their teacher’s voice. Without thinking enough, he reached for the child’s wrist. “Are you—”

The child recoiled as though burned, and Olruggio barely managed to withdraw before the slamming door sliced off his hand. He stumbled back a step, teetering on the top step. Hiehart reached a firm arm out and caught him.

They exchanged a long and heavy look. Then, with a sober sort of shame, Olruggio took back the scroll and turned, and started down the stairs. Hiehart trailed behind him. Without looking, Olruggio drew a small pyreball seal, and the failed plan disintegrated in his palm; he let the ashes scatter in the alley, where they would remain until someone came by to sweep them up. There was no wind in the Great Hall. There was no change.

Hiehart walked with him to the Windowway Parlor. From there, with a tip of his tassel-heavy hat and a hand on Olruggio’s shoulder, he took his leave. Olruggio watched him, till the last snatch of cloak disappeared around the corner. For all his peppy verbosity, the kid had a keen intuition for when to shut up.

He was a good kid. A good man, and a good friend. Olruggio dragged a hand over his beard. He wished he was even half as reliable.

It was the usual pattern: Professor Qifrey would check on Agott twice, apprising her of the late hour. If she was still hunched at her desk the third time he passed by, he’d just say ‘goodnight’ with a weary, possibly annoyed sort of smile. That didn’t mean he was going to bed, though. Agott knew he kept hours as odd as hers, knew he fell asleep in places just as random. A mutual self-consciousness prevented them from ever addressing it.

Agott wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d said goodnight tonight. She’d scrounged up an old storybook, one of the few she’d brought with her, a favorite from when she was little. And she had only meant to skim a few pages, checking to see if she recalled a certain scene correctly, but now she was almost a third of the way through the book.

She felt guilty; she was wasting time. How many times had she read this before? And how many books did she have lined up to read, that she needed to read to get better at magic, at life? But she felt another way, as well…safe, maybe. She knew she loved—used to love—this story, these characters. She could trust that they still had the power to make her heart feel lighter.

…Tch. What twelve-year-old needed something as childish as that? How much whinier could she get? She moved to put the book away—ah, but she shouldn’t leave off just three pages away from the end of the chapter…

Her room was at the near end of the hall, and if her door was open, she could often hear the goings-on downstairs. So Agott heard it when the front door opened; heard Professor Qifrey say, “Welcome home,” and the answering grumble. Followed by, “...you’re drunk.”

“An’ you’re not my dad,” Professor Olruggio said.

“Give me that.” Rustling; more grumbling. “What happened?”

“Stopped by Kalhn. The tavern. Saw some friends…drop it, Qifrey. I’m goin’ to bed…”

“I’m not an idiot,” said Professor Qifrey. “...I know when you’re upset.”

Agott gasped, a sharp little intake of breath. She’d held so still that she'd forgotten to breathe. As quietly as possible, she orphaned her book and crept toward her half-open door. She eased it open. Dim, golden light from the living room fireplace flickered on the landing, and the bend in the stairs allowed Agott to gingerly crouch at the top without being seen.

I’m eavesdropping, she thought.

“...’m sorry, Qifrey…”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t…me an’ Hiehart…well, it didn’t mean a damn thing, did it? Prob’ly got the kid in trouble…”

“The kid? What on earth are you talking about?”

Agott heard the groan of the old sofa; heard the soft clink of china.

“No, I—really, I don’t deserve…”

“Now you sound like me. Take the damn tea and tell me what happened.”

Crackling. Rustling.

“...you know I went to the Hall today.”

“Yes. You said so this morning.”

“...Well, I did have business, but I…” He sighed, deeply. “Me an’ Hiehart, we went…we tried to find her brother. Richeh’s brother. But I screwed up.”

Scarcely audible: “...What?”

“Soon’s we knocked on the door, the headteacher came ’round…scared the shit out of him, and I didn’t even—”

“Olruggio. You did what?” Professor Qifrey’s voice was low, and different. Colder, somehow. Agott hadn’t heard it sound like that more than a couple times. She tugged her dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.

“What th’fuck is that tone for,” said Professor Olruggio. His voice was the opposite: heating up. “I had to try, didn’t I? You were jus’ sayin’ you wanted to try—”

“There’s a difference between wishful thinking and bull-headed meddling! Good god, Olruggio—” He sounded truly angry. “How foolish!”

“That’s rich, comin’ from you,” Professor Olruggio fired back. “What the hell was it when you rescued Richeh? Huh? That wasn’t meddling?”

“That man will recognize you. He’ll report you. I won’t have you losing your job on my behalf—”

“It was my choice, Qifrey. You didn’t tell me to go down there—”

“But you wouldn’t even be in that situation if it wasn’t for me—”

“EXACTLY! If it wasn’t for you, tryin’ to help a kid out of a shitty situation!”

“Olruggio!” Professor Qifrey hissed. “The girls are asleep!”

“Shit—shit. ’m sorry.” He sounded utterly dejected. “...goddammit.”

“Here.”

There was more rustling. Agott couldn’t tell for sure, but maybe Professor Olly had spilled his tea. She picked at her thumb. She wondered if she should pretend the shouting had woken her up. Pad down the stairs; fret on the landing. Interrupt and break it up. But they were still talking—

“I told you I spoke with Beldaruit,” Professor Qifrey said. “He said we would need Riliphin’s voiced decision. Or, if he is too afraid to speak up…substantial evidence.”

“Between him an’ Richeh, how frightened they are…sure the other students, too. Anybody can see what a menace he is…”

“I know,” Professor Qifrey sighed. “But, on the other hand…I appreciate the difficulty. I wouldn’t want anyone skulking around my atelier, poaching my students.”

“ ’Cause you’re a good teacher. A fuckin’ great teacher.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“They’re happier here. They’re safe here.”

“They’ve a very keen Watchful Eye.”

“...I hope I didn’t wake ’em up.”

“I’ll check on them when I go up to bed.”

Creaking. Shifting. Joints popping.

“Don’t fall asleep on the couch.”

“In fact, your arrival woke me up.”

“Dammit, Qifrey…”

A wet, squishy sound. A kiss??

Agott blushed. She was eavesdropping. She shouldn’t have heard any of this. Gathering her nightgown in her fists, she turned to sneak back to her room—and almost collided with an owl-eyed Tetia.

“What the—”

“He’s coming! C’mon!!” Tetia grabbed Agott’s wrist and hauled her down the hall, into the middle room—Tetia's room. She pulled them into a corner and tugged a quilt over them both. They held their breath.

Two knocks. Softly: “Agott?”

“My lantern’s still lit,” Agott hissed.

“Don’t worry,” whispered Tetia.

Professor Qifrey might have heard them. However, he never infringed on their privacy—never entered their rooms without their permission. Agott had never had that assurance before she lived here. If she’d tried to read past bedtime, in those days, she would have been in trouble.

Not these days.

The floorboards creaked. Professor Qifrey paused outside their room next, only feet from where they crouched. Then he took hold of the handle and eased the door shut. More shuffling…more creaking. And finally, a distant squelch—the hinges of his bedroom door.

“Phew!!” Tetia shoved off the quilt at once. “That was close!”

Agott stood, backing out of the corner. She glared at Tetia. “How long were you behind me?!”

“I dunno,” said Tetia coyly. “How long were you spying on the professors?”

Agott went red again. She crossed her arms and looked away. “...I dunno.”

From the corner of her eye, she watched Tetia drag the shabby quilt to the center of the umbrous room, which was still pretty cluttered with piles of clothing and drawing supplies, and spread it out. Watched her take hold of one corner and guide it over to meet another. Agott’s thoughts swirled and muddied on their journey to her lips—without warning, she blurted, “What happened to Richeh?”

Tetia frowned at her. “I think she’s in bed,” she said.

“No—” Agott stomped to the opposite end of the quilt and took hold of the corners. “I mean—”

Tetia’s frown flipped into a beaming smile, like she’d never been frowning at all. “Thanks, Agott!”

“Forget it,” snapped Agott, even as she carried her corners toward Tetia’s, careful not to step on any wands or socks or like debris. “Your room is a mess…but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying—” Their hands met. Agott followed Tetia’s lead. She stretched to take the new corner their fold had formed. “What happened at her old atelier? She’s got a brother, too?” One question at a time, Agott!

“A-ha…” Tetia avoided Agott’s scrutinizing gaze. “Yeah, an older brother! I guess her old professor was kind-of a jerk…” She trailed off as she tip-toed toward Agott again. They joined the next set of corners. “Thanks! I’ll take it from here!”

Agott dumped her half of the quilt into Tetia’s arms. She could tell Tetia wanted to change the subject, but she hated being left in the dark. Why was she the last person in the whole atelier to know about whatever this was? She pushed past her impulsive feelings of rejection, right into anger.

“It’s not fair!” she said. “Everyone’s been acting weird, and taking secret trips, and—and having private conversations, but I don’t know what’s going on!”

Tetia hugged the quilt, flinching a little. “I…”

“Am I not mature enough to know?! Would I not understand, or something?!” Agott scoffed. “I—I had it rough at my old atelier, too—” Even though I brought that on myself. “I don’t know what all Richeh had to deal with, but—but how am I supposed to help if you keep acting all high and mighty and leaving me out of it?!”

“Sorry, Agott,” Tetia stressed. “It’s not you, I promise! It’s just…”

“What is it, then?!”

“I don’t know if Richeh wants me to tell you!”

Agott felt her stomach drop. She felt that sticky shroud of shame spread from her heart and spider-web over her lungs, smothering her. Why would Richeh trust her, anyway? She hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to be friendly. She didn’t deserve the role of a confidant. She didn’t even want it—she was just jealous. She felt hot tears piling up behind her squeezed-shut eyes. Baby!

“You want to help Richeh?”

Agott’s eyes snapped open. Only one tear broke free. She struck it from her cheek immediately.

Richeh stood at the top of the stairs which led down to the bedrooms. She held up a lantern. The sleeves of her smoky blue nightgown were too long; her socks were too big.

Tetia dropped the quilt—fwump—and rushed over to her. “Did we wake you up?” she asked, fretting from foot to foot. “We’re so sorry!”

Agott already struggled with reading emotions, but Richeh was a whole new level of challenging. She regarded Agott with a tiny frown, a tiny knot in her brow. Almost like she couldn’t tell what Agott was, like she was trying to discern what creature this was, hunched in the shadows.

“Well?” said Richeh.

Agott stammered, “W-well, what?”

“You said you want to help Richeh. Are you telling the truth?”

Agott blushed. “Why would I lie?”

Richeh just said, “Hm.” Clarifying nothing. She turned to Tetia. “What did the grown-ups say?” she asked.

“No luck,” said Tetia. She took Richeh’s hand in hers. “They said that Rili needs to say he wants to change ateliers.”

“Rili never says how Rili feels,” said Richeh quietly. She lowered her head. Tetia gently took her lantern and set it at one of their desks, never letting go of her hand. And Tetia lowered her head, too. But Agott raised her chin in furious thought.

This was the hour which afforded her maximum clarity, the midnight hour. Judgmental eyes were closed, and Mother slept, and Agott had the chance to think. To dwell on all the day’s events, the things she’d learned, the things she’d ruined. To plot the coming day. I’ll do better. I won’t fail again. I can’t. I won’t! And yet, more often than she had the courage to say, she didn’t plan. She didn’t analyze.

She cried herself to sleep.

How different would it have been if she’d had an older sibling? Would they have been as unreachable as Mother? As stuck-up as her cousins? Would they have cast a thick, portentous shadow over Agott, one that crossed over Mother’s and doubled in thickness, suffocating her?

Or would they listen for her tears, and knock, and sit upon the bed and whisper comfort to her—staying with her? Watching over her? Someone she’d...love, as much as Richeh clearly loved her brother?

She looked at Tetia, holding Richeh’s hand. She thought of Professor Olly, risking his job to look for Richeh’s brother. She thought of Professor Qifrey, checking on them. Letting Richeh hide.

Agott’s fists tightened. She was the first to arrive here. She was (well—hoped to be) a model for them, and for any new students thereafter. She wanted her turn. Her turn to try to help Richeh.

“Richeh,” she said. “If your brother trusts anyone, it’s you. Right?”

Richeh raised her head a little, peeking through her curtain of hair.

“You’re the most likely person he’d share his heart with,” asserted Agott. “Because you’re siblings who love each other.” It was only logical. “You told Tetia about your brother because she’s like your sibling, too, right? Your sister? She cares about you—and you trust her with the secrets that are closest to your heart.”

Agott blushed again—this was pretty sappy stuff—but midnight also offered the advantage in this regard: It was too dark to tell.

“You’re right, Agott,” said Tetia, who’d been hanging on her every word. “And since we’re sisters—that makes Rili our brother, too!”

Richeh gasped. “Sisters?”

Tetia held Richeh’s hand to her cheek in affirmation. “Uh-huh!”

“Right,” said Agott. “And I think we need to find a way for you to talk to your brother.” What were they calling him? “To Rili. One on one, no distractions. So he feels safe enough to tell you how he feels.” Agott propped her fists on her hips. “Because he does want out of there, right?”

Richeh’s glare was desperate. “Yes!!”

“Alright, then!” Agott felt the dogged joy of productivity—of progress. She took two steps toward the girls. “Let’s make a plan!”

Richeh turned to Tetia, wide-eyed, who blessed her with a fervent nod and smile in return.

There was a fleeting pause. Then Richeh’s mien morphed into one of fierce determination. She padded forward, dragging Tetia along with her, and grabbed Agott’s hand. Tetia reached for Agott’s other hand, turning the same smile upon her.

“Thank you,” Richeh whispered, squeezing both their hands. “Richeh’s sisters.”

Agott held her breath. She stared at the hands holding hers. Her hands were clammy and sweaty and rough. Ugh, and the skin of her thumb—she had picked it to bits. It was gross. They could let go now. Come on, girls—you can let go. But they didn’t seem to notice.

…‘Sisters?’

Was she somehow a piece of this puzzle? A patch of this love-stitched quilt?

“Don’t thank me yet,” she mumbled, warm words flickering in the lantern light.

Breakfast would be late. It was raining, dismal, spattering sheets of it—Strike One. It was Sunday, without any lessons to get to—Strike Two. And Olruggio would be a snarling, self-reproaching sasquatch, based on how drunk he’d been the night prior…Qifrey hoped to mitigate the monstrousness as much as possible. Lemon blueberry breakfast cake it was.

The girls were up, all three of them. They huddled on the living room couch with tea, snug beneath blankets, chatting softly. This helped Qifrey find a smile despite his headache, as he stole glances around the kitchen wall between trips to the pantry. Could this be the first time they were all willingly ‘hanging out?’ What had changed? Perhaps, by virtue of time and exposure, the scales had tipped them from mere acquaintances, mere housemates, over to friends. But time and exposure did not equate to growing fondness—certainly not. Study halls with Easthies had proven that much…

Qifrey prepared special bacon wraps, as well, chock full of autumn vegetables and eggs. Whisking the eggs, slicing the bacon—the busier his hands could be, the better. Save the magic for the washing up.

“Wow, Professor!! That smells delicious!!”

Qifrey jumped. The whisk clattered in the bowl. He wiped his hands on the apron he’d tugged over his pajamas, squinting—how did he always end up getting flour on his glasses?

“You startled me, Tetia!” he said. “But thank you. It’s lemon blueberry cake, one of Olly’s favorites. He got in very late last night.”

Tetia idled on the low kitchen stairs, swinging her arms in a twisting motion and causing her sunflower nightgown to twirl. Olruggio had sewed it for her, not long after she’d arrived here. She blurted, “We’ve had it before!”

“Yes, we have.” He hesitated. Tetia would be fine to share this hopeful feeling with. “...It delights me to see you three spending time together on your own.” He smiled. “You seem to be getting on well…?”

Tetia’s swinging and squirming intensified. She coughed out a nervous laugh. “Haha! Yeah!! Um. Professor! I was wondering!”

He kept smiling to encourage her. “Yes?”

Abruptly, she stopped swinging. She squared her shoulders and asked with quite a serious face, “I was wondering!! What is your birthday policy??”

Qifrey blinked. “...my ‘birthday policy’…?? Erm—”

“Is it true that we can choose something special that we want to do!” She went on in a rush. “For our birthday! Anything we want!”

“Ah—” He rushed to think back on their most recent birthday. Agott’s, in July. Richeh hadn’t arrived yet. What had they done that day? “Um. I suppose—”

“Then!!” Tetia cried. “If I may! May I please request my special birthday day to happen early?!”

Qifrey gave up on keeping up. He hung his head, massaging his neck. “How early?”

“Today!”

His head shot up. “Today?”

She bowed from the waist, pink curls tumbling. “Pretty please!!”

“You…” He rubbed his chin, calculating, tuning out the pouring rain. Tetia’s birthday was a month away. She would have been his student for about a year by then. Well, if she wanted to celebrate early—which for whatever reason seemed to be her most ardent wish this morning—and then felt left out later, when her actual birthday came and went…they could celebrate the anniversary of her arrival instead.

‘Birthday policy’ sounded an awful lot like Agott terminology, Qifrey thought fondly—she who yet dissected every loving gesture, turning it upside down and shaking it to reveal its ulterior motive. But the ‘policy’ was merely celebration, for the sake of fun. And the birthday itself? Why, that was just an excuse for showering extra love, for sharing extra thanks. Thank you for being you. Could be any day, really. His smile returned, that old gift from his oldest friends. He offered it to Tetia.

“...Alright,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind starting a bit late.”

Tetia beamed. “Really?! No, I don’t mind at all!!” She bowed several more times, ending with a pirouette. “Thank you, Professor!!”

“Be careful! Don’t fall down the stairs!” he cried. He added lightly, hoping not to sound too paranoid, “Not before you tell me—what special thing would you like to do today?”

“Right…we-ell…” She hemmed and hawed again, glancing over her shoulder. Qifrey followed her gaze and caught, just briefly, the blue and purple blurs that disappeared behind the kitchen wall. His eyebrows traveled upward. Little conspirers…

Tetia raised her chin and declared, “I want to go shopping at the Great Hall!!”

Qifrey reacted as though she had stepped on his foot, wincing and hissing. The Hall?! Of all places?!

“Isn’t today miserable enough?” he mumbled, before he could help it, immediately regretting it. Tetia looked down at her sock-feet, wagging her toes, sniffling. His heart sank even further. “I’m sorry, Tetia. I don't mean that. Today's not miserable. But—why not someplace like Kalhn? Or the Traveling Pastures? Someplace closer? Anywhere—” Literally anywhere else would be better!

But she only murmured, “Please…?”

Qifrey pinched the bridge of his nose. It was her special day. Her special day, dammit, not his—if she really desperately longed to go—

Three things happened at once: The kitchen timer contraption went off, running in its little ringing circle. A low and heavy roll of thunder rattled the atelier windows. And behind Tetia, a lumbering sasquatch reared its shaggy—and awfully endearing—bedhead.

“Everybody quit yer belly-achin’,” groused Olruggio, his ire a bit tempered by a mighty yawn. “...I’ll take you, Tetia.”

She bent her head back so far that it bumped against Olruggio’s chest. She peered up at him, with the largest, saddest pleading eyes Qifrey had ever seen.

“With everyone…?” she squeaked.

“Hmmm.” Olruggio swayed, still half-asleep. He lifted a lock of Tetia’s wild hair and swung it to its proper spot. “...It’s your birthday, or something, you said? Happy birthday. Mine’s comin’ up, too…”

“Not her birthday,” said Agott, suddenly appearing, a frowning, floating head upon the kitchen wall. “Her special birthday day. She’s redeeming it early.”

Olruggio grumbled. He sounded like an old furnace, reluctant to clamber and cough into action. “Birthday special…huh?? Is’is one of your new policies?” This was directed at Qifrey, who threw up a hand in resignation.

“Evidently,” he said.

“I see.” Olruggio sniffed. “Ah. Better take that cake out.”

Qifrey gasped. He’d forgotten. He smashed the expiring timer under his fist and knelt at the oven, biting back curses.

“So…we can all go?” Tetia dared to ask, just to confirm, while his back was turned. And before Qifrey could muster his begrudging acquiescence, Olly said,

“You bet.”

“Thank you thank you thank yooou!!!” Tetia cheered. Her timid demeanor evaporated. She sprung to the kitchen wall and gave Agott a hearty high-five. Then she moved her hand, hesitating just a little—and received a second high-five from a second, smaller hand.

“They’re plotting something,” Qifrey muttered to himself, over at the stove. The cake was browned, just shy of smoking, and the bacon wraps were only half-prepared. At this hour, this would scarcely qualify as brunch. The rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon. Olruggio sat at the kitchen island, head in his arms, dozing already. And the girls…

All three of them whispered and fidgeted with such earnestness. They were plotting something, certainly…but Qifrey thought, with glowing, growing hearts like those…it wasn’t such a bad thing.

Artwork by Golly:

Chapter Text

Beldaruit took his afternoon tea in the breakfast room, beside the open window, surveying the quiet street below. It was just the illusion of fresh air, here beneath the ocean; and he had not quite recovered from his chronic illness. He merely did not feel as miserable as yesterday, and not nearly as miserable as the evening prior. This had always been the way of things; he had low expectations for his health. He was used to it.

Yet how regrettable, he thought, sipping the cinnamon and mountain apple blend, that his memories were clouded by his feverish exhaustion; for how rarely was he visited by Qifrey. And he had thoroughly mucked it up, as usual…Qifrey had come to him for help, and he had all but dashed the young professor’s hopes against the hearthstones.

Beldaruit rested his teacup and saucer in his lap, frowning down at the swirling liquid as it took the shape of a dragon. How he resented his own waffling, his ineffectual fretting. This morning, having recovered some semblance of mental clarity, he’d asked the Teachers’ Bureau for a full report, for a thorough investigation of Richeh’s former atelier. He had the power to act, at least in this way; but Qifrey had surely written him off by now. There was seldom a chance that his disaffected first apprentice would come calling anytime soon…

At the sound of approaching voices, carrying from the street, Beldaruit looked up.

“Could it be…?!” Beldaruit thrust his tea aside. He spurred his sealchair to its feet for a better look. He felt his spirits rise, buoyed by a sudden, startling surge of energy. “Surely not!”

But he knew that hurried gait from miles away; he knew the whole history of that trailing ribbon. Knew so well the slouching figure at the tall witch’s left hand. And the pair were not alone—they were being pushed along by three seafoam-capped little ones! Qifrey’s apprentices!

The group skipped and leapt and chatted all the way to his doorstep, and if Beldaruit had had just a little more gumption, he would have leapt right through the window to greet them.

“Hello-o-o!” he sang instead, leaning out, waving furiously. “Have you all come to visit me?! How happy it makes me!! Please come in, come in, come in!!”

“You’re gonna fall out the window,” dear Olruggio called up to him, before sensing the students’ eyes on him and adding, with a half-baked bow, “...Lord Beldaruit, the Wise in Teachings. Please be careful.”

The trio of girls mimicked him, dipping into their own, fretful bows, but Beldaruit waved both hands now, tilting even farther out. “Please, there is no need for so much formality! I feel we are like family! I am utterly bel-lighted to meet you all!”

Qifrey had never bowed to him; Beldaruit knew he never would, and Beldaruit would never make such a demand. Today, he gave Beldaruit a rather helpless look, equal parts chagrined and mortified. It did not seem as though he’d planned to bring his students here…and yet, sometimes, it behooved one to relax and ‘go with the flow!’ Doesn’t it, Qifrey! For your poor former teacher’s sake! Beldaruit grinned, and Qifrey sighed, quite in tune with the unspoken admonition. Qifrey pushed open the double doors; his progeny tip-toed inside.

Beldaruit galloped to the foyer, bunching the rugs in his haste to meet them, his illness but an afterthought. Olruggio offered a nod; Qifrey kept his eye on his boots; and the three girls gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, around at the fixtures and antiques and fine architecture, variously wide-eyed and awestruck.

“Do make yourselves at home,” said Beldaruit, beaming, charmed beyond belief. They were so darling in their uniforms—the very uniforms which he’d had a hand in designing, not so very long ago. (The white loop on the back was his touch of flair.) What fun it had been! Beldaruit had not taken on new apprentices since becoming a Wise One…for a multitude of reasons, to be sure. Yet the sight of these eager children filled him with rueful fondness.

He did miss those days; his passion for teaching had sustained him. His spirit had lately been lagging, beset by the miasma of vague and complicated politics, the burden of protecting dire secrets…the exigent weight of such immense authority.

One of the girls approached him—Miss Arklaum, he determined, for her dignity and noble mien were unmistakable. She struggled not to bow again, electing instead to present him with something wrapped in an embroidered towel.

“We brought this for you,” she said. “Um. Sir. Lord Beldaruit. It’s cake. Er…” She bit her lip, and self-recrimination flashed behind her eyes, which she wrestled back down into her heart in an instant. She lifted her chin. “You already know who we are, right? I mean. My name is Agott…”

“Indeed,” he said, relieving her of the spotlight, accepting the cake with a cheerful smile. “The esteemed first apprentice of my first apprentice’s atelier. Enchantée, Agott, and thank you for the gift!”

Agott blushed and drew her hands to her sides, picking at her thumbnails. The second student bounded forward, her hair a curly cloud of pleasant pink.

“My name is Tetia! It’s nice to meet you, Lord Beldaruit!” She curtsied, smiling nervously.

Beldaruit inclined his head. “The pleasure is mine!”

The third little girl peered at him from around a large, midnight blue pot. It seemed a rather arduous load, but she hugged it with such defiant fierceness—Beldaruit daren’t suggest she was not up to the task.

“You must be Richeh,” he prompted.

“We’re just dropping the professors off,” she said.

“Huh?!”

From his broody station in the corner, Qifrey staggered forward. Olruggio, likewise, turned a sharp gaze upon the girls, who stiffened with guilt. This had been part of their scheme all along, so it seemed.

“We, uh…well! We were thinking…we would like to go shopping on our own!” said Tetia.

“Just us girls,” insisted Agott, stressing, “for Tetia’s special birthday day.”

Qifrey cried, “On your own?! I—I’m not sure I feel comfortable letting you three go alone—”

Tetia squirmed, plainly distressed to be an agent of such dismay. Yet she persisted: “Please, Professor?”

Qifrey twisted his cloak in his hands. “It’s just—it isn’t safe—”

Beldaruit cleared his throat. They all deferred to him, even the frustrated Qifrey. He steepled his fingers.

“The Great Hall is, by all accounts, one of the safest places for young witches to explore without supervision,” he said. “Students much younger than yours venture out on their own, without any trouble, all the time.”

Qifrey’s frown remained deep, practically a pout. “But it’s so big…so easy to get lost…”

“I recall two young witches who would traverse half the peninsula as though it were a jaunt across the street,” said Beldaruit, earning a pointed cough from Olruggio. He went on, “I know it’s very different, from a teacher’s point of view…it’s only natural to worry. But there are some adventures one’s students must undertake themselves.”

“We all used to live here. We know our way around,” added Agott. Tetia and Richeh nodded.

“They’ll be alright,” said Olruggio.

Qifrey swiveled between them all, between Olruggio and his girls’ and Beldaruit’s twinkling eyes, completely cornered. With an aggravated sigh, he released his cloak; he rubbed his temples, shaking his head.

“Fine,” he said. “Meet us back here in one clock mark.”

Tetia yet squirmed. “Two clock marks…?”

“One.”

“Get outta here before he changes his mind,” said Olruggio, ushering them toward the door. They scurried off, stepping on one another’s hems, a flurry of youthful intrepidity.

“That’s that!” said Beldaruit. Qifrey’s response was closer to a grumble than an intelligible phrase.

“I’ll brew some tea for me an’ Qifrey,” Olruggio offered at once, eager to ditch the tension. He absconded into the depths of the house, whose hallways he surely knew by heart; and in the abrupt quiet of the foyer, Qifrey swept off his hat, mussed up his hair, and raised his eye to meet Beldaruit’s with familiar, endearing reluctance.

“Those were my students,” he said.

“They are lovely girls,” smiled Beldaruit.

Qifrey hesitated. “...Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thank you,” said Beldaruit. He laid his hand over his heart. “Since your visit.”

One clock mark! Would it be enough time?

The girls raced through the streets, past grand houses, apartments, ateliers, vendors, stopping for nothing. At every corner, they would skid into each other, panting, looking this way and that, and Richeh would point with her pot. This way!

The closer they got, the worse Richeh felt. She didn’t want to go back to this place. Her stomach was full of bees, and her hands were sweaty, as sticky and slide-y as honey. She tripped on the edge of a stone, fumbling the pot, and she started to panic. But Agott caught the bottom of the pot, Tetia caught Richeh, and with encouraging looks, the girls lifted the pot from her hands.

“We’ve got this!” Tetia told her. She and Agott slowed their pace and strode together, carrying the pot between them, with Richeh in the lead.

Richeh would guess they had already spent one-third of their one clock mark by the time the pukey-colored pennants of her old atelier materialized. She halted. She balled her hands into tight fists, biting her lip and staring up at the narrow windows—at the window of the room she used to sleep in. Guess it hadn’t been a bad dream, after all. Of course it hadn’t been! Rili still lived here. He was still trapped inside. And they were here to get him out!

“This is it, huh?” asked Agott, sneering. “It’s ugly.”

“Yep. Super-ugly.” Ugly in the way unloving things were ugly; cold where it ought to have been warm, absorbing light and not reflecting any back. A void. Richeh mirrored Agott’s sneer, empowered by her new friend’s disgust on her behalf. Even Tetia’s nostrils flared.

“It needs a rainbow overhaul,” she asserted.

“Blech!” they all pronounced in unison, and raced ahead.

Richeh bypassed the front steps. She led them around back, shimmying between two stone walls, motoring right through the drab and wilted garden. Not even solar lamp contraptions had ever been able to help this garden.  No one was ever allowed outside to tend it. Richeh trudged right over her old professor’s favorites, some haggard pepper plants, some nasty celery. She heard the girls behind her, following suit. Crunch, crunch.

With their support, Richeh had courage. She could do this. She pulled open the kitchen door.

It was stony, dingy, and sparse, in keeping with the austere reputation of the place. It was also, mercifully, empty. Richeh tip-toed to the counter, to the corner where the cook kept their faded stack of recipes, their piles of keys and knick-knacks. She lifted the pocket watch from the chipped butter dish. They were just in time. She turned and gave a thumbs-up.

“He’ll be here any minute,” she whispered to them. “Over here.”

She led Agott and Tetia to the corner by the pantry. She pushed aside a pile of swaying, empty crates, brushed away grimy cobwebs, and scooted a sack of husk potatoes to make room. Tetia and Agott understood; they lowered the pot into the newly-made spot. It sank into place with a peculiar fwoom.

“This is good,” whispered Agott as she settled in behind the crates. She pulled off her hat and stuffed it into her robes. “We can see pretty far down the hallway from here.”

Tetia crouched behind the husk potatoes, likewise hiding her hat. “Yeah! We can keep watch and warn you if we see your old professor coming!”

“Just like we planned,” agreed Agott. She hesitated. Then she stuck out her hand. “We’ve got your back. Okay?”

Tetia held out her hand, too, with eagerness. She whispered, “Richeh? You okay?”

Richeh blinked. She realized she had zoned out, trying to suppress her nerves. She wiped her sweaty hands against her robes, harshly and rapidly. She slapped a tiny high-five into each.

“Thanks for helping Richeh,” she whispered.

Tetia smiled. Agott blushed and looked away. And Richeh looked ahead.

She crouched next to Tetia, prepared to duck if the wrong person showed up, and she locked her eyes upon the long and dismal hallway. Infrequent sconces pockmarked it with sickly light. Richeh stared. She stared so hard that the candlelight started to blur, diffusing like pale, yellow clouds of disease, like ominous will-o’-the-wisps. Richeh narrowed her eyes. If she blinked she might miss him. They watered. They burned.

But then, sure enough, at the same time as always, he appeared. As silent as the quivering shadows, slipping in and out of them, head bowed, fingers threaded—here was Rili.

“Is that him?” Tetia whispered.

Richeh’s eyes blurred and blurred. Her breathing came in short, tight spurts. She couldn’t seem to catch it. “Rili…”

Rili stepped over the threshold. Richeh sprang from her hiding place.

“Rili—!!”

Rili jolted. He didn’t scream, but his hands flew to his throat, an instinctive shield, and he gaped at Richeh with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Wh…what are you…” He only mouthed the words, mouth opening and closing like a fish, completely dumbfounded. “Richeh…Richehlette…?!”

“It’s me!” Richeh tried to remember to whisper. “I’m not a ghost! It’s really me, Rili!”

She raced across the floor. She needed to confirm for herself, too, that it wasn’t a ghost she was seeing. She threw her arms around him, locking him in a fervent embrace, inhaling his familiar scent. He panicked, coughing, struggling to breathe, and he tried weakly to slough her off. He was so, so scared. He was Rili, alright.

“What are you doing here?!” he choked out, lower than a whisper.

Richeh gave a final squeeze and stumbled backward. “We have to talk,” she said.

Rili stared. He swallowed. “R-right now?! Right here?!”

“No, here!”

Tetia revealed herself, like a pink flower popping up from the potato soil. Rili’s hands leapt again to his throat.

“We brought the secret passageway!” said Tetia in a pointed talk-whisper. She patted the pot. Thoom-thoom.

“We can talk in my secret room,” Richeh entreated. “The one you taught me how to make.”

Rili stammered, “But I have to—Master’s tea…I—”

Agott lifted the top crate and glared through the opening.

“Forget the tea,” she hissed. “That jerk can brew his own tea.”

Rili glitched, overwhelmed. He shook his head and swayed, unsteady, flagging.

Richeh said, “They’re my friends. They’re here to help us. It’s okay.”

There wasn’t much time. Richeh took Rili’s hand. She tugged him to the pot; he tripped in her wake. When he reached it, he froze again—but at the unyielding insistence of all three girls, he gave up, pallid with resignation. He gripped the rim with tremulous hands and hoisted his leg up and over. He lost his balance, flailing, and tumbled down the dirt ramp with a yelp.

Richeh scrambled after him. Halfway over the rim, she glanced back at her friends. At her sisters. They offered two thumbs-up, two resolute nods.

“We’ll be back,” said Richeh, and slipped away.

Olruggio’s hat grazed the high ceiling of Lord Bel’s airy sitting room. He floated level with the chandelier. He’d tied off his sleeves and rigged his tool bag to float next to him; he dug around for various sizes of Searneedle Wands and stuck them behind his ears, in his belt, between his teeth.

“I swear you’ll like this,” he said again. He pushed his hair from his eyes for the hundredth time to look down at Lord Bel, who raised his teacup in response with an affable smile.

“I’m certain I will.”

Olruggio worked on the sixth out of ten candle cups, carving into the gilded bronze—a tricky task, for the cups were small and thin, and applying the wand required precise pressure. Too much, and the cup would crack and fissure. Too little, and the seals would be too weak. Their depth had to be consistent, as uniform as possible. No small task...but the Shining Torch was up for it. He winked at his reflection. A multitude of teensy Ollys, shimmering within the crystals, winked back. After yesterday, he could use the extra votes of confidence.

He was up there for a few reasons. The room was great for testing this idea: spacious, high-ceilinged, prone to producing shadowy pockets. And the sage had always been a good sport when it came to practicing magic in his mansion. Olruggio had ruined many a rug in his day, had cremated many a curtain…a couple of couches. None of that had ever incurred Lord Bel’s anger. Nope, they'd used all that up with all their Brimmed Cap hunting…

More importantly, though, Olruggio wanted to give Qifrey and Beldaruit some space. If he seemed distracted and distant enough, the two of them were more likely to have a sincere conversation. That was another old tactic of his, tried and (somewhat) true. Make yourself scarce, but stay in the same room, in case things get heated. They certainly had in the past. The best fire witches didn’t stop at starting fires; they were just as adept at putting them out.

Speaking of…

“This morning, I wrote to the Teachers’ Bureau,” said Beldaruit. Olruggio heard the light clatter of teacup on saucer. He did not hear a reply from Qifrey. No matter; Beldaruit could easily have been named the Wise in One-Sided Conversations. The old man carried on:

“A comprehensive performance review will be conducted at Richeh’s former atelier. It begins as soon as possible. No stone will be left unturned...I stressed it must be thorough, absolutely thorough.”

At this, Olruggio withdrew his wand, just a little. A wisp of smoke curled from his half-finished sigil of light. He listened.

Beldaruit said, “The children will be interviewed. The headteacher will be cross-examined.”

“He’s just going to lie,” said Qifrey.

Beldaruit’s reply was a bit curt. “...Perhaps.”

Olruggio’s chest tightened. He resumed his carving, managing his breathing—channeling the brewing tension through his wand.

“It’s as you said,” continued Qifrey, sounding more measured than Olruggio expected. Or was it resigned? “The other night. That man is eminent enough…his claims will eclipse those of the children.”

“That is why the bureau is conducting an investigation. To procure supporting evidence—”

“He’ll only hide it.”

“I thought you would be pleased to know that I took action,” said Beldaruit, exasperated now.

“May we discuss something else?” asked Qifrey without asking, a cantankerous talent of his. Beldaruit coughed—sounded kinda rough—and didn’t reply.

Olruggio finished the sigil. He brushed the candle cup with the side of hand, scattering golden flakes. They flittered to the rug…onto a sizable pile. He took the spare wand from his mouth and wiped it on his skirt, sheepish.

“My bad. I’ll clean all that up.”

The pair ignored him. They sat facing away from each other, chins planted in their palms, pouting over their empty cups and cake plates. Geez. Olruggio cleared his throat and tried again.

“I oughta be finished by the time the girls get back. I hope they’ll like it, too.”

Qifrey shot him a tired look, but Olruggio could sense the small, affectionate smile, hidden behind his hand. “They’ll adore it.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” said Olruggio, smirking back.

“You’ve always been so modest, dear Olruggio,” proclaimed Lord Bel, unfurling, seizing the subject change. “Since you were a boy. Performing on palace steps between pop quizzes and playdates…I never knew how you managed it all, and with such flying colors!”

“I didn’t,” said Olruggio. “I hobble around with the knee and back aches of a witch twice my age…my wrists are shot, too, and my neck…can’t see for shit at night…” He wagged the Searneedle Wand at the sage. “You wait an’ see, Lord Bel. We’ll be roommates in the old witches’ home, at this rate. Qifrey’ll visit us, with the girls, and bring us soup…”

Beldaruit chuckled. “Is that so?”

Qifrey scoffed. “Will I not be there with you? You’re implying I didn’t work as hard?”

“Pfft.” Lord Bel and Olruggio both snorted at that.

Qifrey’s irritation was playful this time. “Well, thank you for abiding with such a ne’er-do-well.”

“Had to help myself look good somehow.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Olruggio tucked away his reassuring smile; he never knew when his sensitive friend might take something the wrong way, but Qifrey was laughing. What a relieving sound!

“All three of my students work hard. Unlike me at that age,” said Qifrey. He slid from his chair to the rug, folded his palm quire open against his knee, and drew something simple and tidy. A little stream of air scooped up Olruggio’s mess and shot it into the dormant fireplace.

“That’s not true.” Olruggio drifted to the left, tugging his tool bag along, and situated himself beside candle cup number seven. “You worked hard at causing trouble.”

But Beldaruit’s smile grew wistful. “That phrase…‘my students.’ How happy it makes me to hear it. You’ve worked very hard, Qifrey…harder than most, I would wager.”

Qifrey’s ears went red, and Olruggio felt a residual blush dust his own face and neck. The old sage was right, after all. Olruggio was damn proud. He bent over his work. He might’ve misjudged how long this was taking…The grandfather clock chimed at that very moment, three heaving, clanging tones, confirming his suspicion.

Qifrey stood and propped his hands on his hips, flaring his cloak. He frowned in the direction of the foyer.

“I was quite firm,” he murmured. “I’m quite sure they understood me…I told them to meet us back here, didn’t I?” He tapped his lips, thinking hard, on the precipice of hollowed-out anxiety.

Beldaruit aimed to curtail it. He said hurriedly, “I believe so. Don’t fret! Tell me…darling Richeh, when she was here…what was that very large pot she was carrying?”

Good call. Distract him with magic talk. It seemed to work. Qifrey relaxed a little, turning back toward the room. He said, “It’s extremely clever, actually. She’s converted it into a portal of sorts—an entrance to a secret room. I’ll have her show you her spellwork when she gets back. If she’s willing. She’s still very shy…”

“Why did she bring it to the Hall?” Olruggio asked, over hissing metal.

“I’m not sure,” Qifrey admitted. “I didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps as a hiding place, if the crowds grow too overwhelming,” suggested Beldaruit.

Qifrey’s faint, perturbed frown returned. “Perhaps. But she was marching through the streets on our way over, full of determination. I’ve scarcely seen her so fierce…”

He trailed off. His fingers rose to his lips again. He swallowed.

“Except…when it concerns her brother.”

Olruggio and Beldaruit were well-practiced in the art of deducing the aims of a stubborn, emotional, unattended young witch. They caught up simultaneously, in an instant.

“Her old atelier,” Olruggio said, abandoning the chandelier, drifting down. He stumbled on the rug. A chill swept over his neck and raced down his spine.

Beldaruit gripped the arms of his chair. “That is where they’ve gone. Alone…”

Qifrey was still, eerily still, gazing at the opposite wall. Olruggio watched him, watched the guilt and comprehension and fear and dread all flash through him, glinting in his eye; felt all of it spread and swirl and congeal in his heart into bitter-cold anger.

Qifrey turned his livid eye upon Olruggio, who understood, gritting his teeth against the scathing twist of anger in his own heart.

Qifrey turned it upon Beldaruit. “Are you well enough?”

The sage’s sealchair rose, slowly, heavily, and his presence filled the room.

“For this,” he said, as grim as his first apprentice, “never better.”

Rili hugged his knees. He trembled, so hard that his teeth chattered. Richeh crawled across the dirt floor to his side. She felt him flinch as she nuzzled against his shoulder. She blinked back tears. She just wanted to help him feel better, to help him calm down.

If she’d had the option, Richeh would have stayed like this with Rili for a long time. They did not need to talk, normally, to understand each other. But they didn’t have very much time.

“I missed you, Rili,” Richeh murmured, turning her face into his sleeve. She heard his breath catch; felt his nose press into her hair. He nodded. Me, too. I missed you, too.

Richeh lifted her head. She searched Rili’s face. Rili avoided her gaze, angling away, like a bird concealing its broken wing. Richeh caught sight of it then: the scrape on his chin. The purple-brown mark along his jaw. She gasped. Her tears sprang up and overflowed, painting stripes down her cheeks.

“Rili…!”

“It’s okay,” Rili said. “It’s nothing. It was my f—”

Richeh tugged his wrist, cutting him off, pulling them both to their feet.

“Come look at this,” she demanded, through her tears.

She led him by the hand through her secret tunnel, around its narrow curve, through the mossy patches, to the other end—where it let out above ground, a small entrance, nestled safely in a gently sloping hillside, protected by a low roof of overhanging rock. It was still raining; they could hear it now, glittering and splashing upon the rocks. The rain glanced away from the entrance, as though ricocheting off a sheet of glass. Richeh had borrowed this repellent spell from the professor, when he wasn’t looking.

Rili stared at her, hesitant, and she urged him forward. You first.

He gulped. He wiped his hands on his robes; then he climbed the handful of stepping stones and perched at the threshold. Richeh followed suit right away, staying by his side. She watched his face as he looked out—watched his eyes widen, his mouth fall open, his hands rise to clutch at his fraying ponytail.

There it lay, ensconced in rain, aglow with the lights they had left in the windows a clock mark ago. A bird fluttered from the roof to the front walk, picking at scattered leaves, hopping through puddles. It was so quiet, apart from the soothing white noise of the rain…so peaceful.

“What a beautiful place,” whispered Rili.

Richeh nodded. “It’s my new atelier.”

“Do you like it there?”

“I love it,” said Richeh. Richeh’s room, Richeh’s sisters, Richeh’s professors and backyard—Richeh loves all of it. Every last bit of it. But—

The ghost of a sorrowful, small smile passed over Rili’s dim face. “I’m so happy, Richehlette. It’s a good place for you.”

“And for you, Rili!” cried Richeh. She clutched his hand in both of hers. “There’s another bedroom. There’s extra tea mugs. Extra towels and washcloths. You—you can live here, too!”

Rili’s smile faded. His brow furrowed. Her entreaties seemed to confuse him. He exhaled, half a laugh, half an almost annoyed sigh. “...What? No…”

More tears welled up. Richeh implored him. “Please?”

Rili just shook his head. “How could I ever…I don’t deserve…”

“Why not?!” Richeh’s voice rose, over a gusty sheet of rain. “Why not, Rili? Don’t you want to leave that place? Don’t you want to live with Richeh again? Where it’s safe? Here?” Her voice broke a little. “With me?”

But the more she begged him, the more distant he grew. He tilted his head, eyes half-closed, like he was falling asleep, or dreaming. He was so…he was so far away.

“He would never let me go,” he said. His eyes fell closed.

“Rili? Rili?”

Thunder dragged through the clouds, long and low, like scraping gravel. The rain poured.

Richeh squeezed Rili’s hand, so tightly, overwhelmed by sheer frustration. Because what Rili said just wasn’t true. Richeh had escaped, hadn’t she? Professor Qifrey and Olruggio could help Rili, too. And they were trying. But the grown-ups had said, ‘Rili has to say he wants to change ateliers.’ And Rili had his eyes closed. Wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t listening.

Rili never said how Rili felt. Not even to Richeh.

What was Richeh supposed to do?

“...cheh! Richeh!”

Richeh’s head shot up. She released Rili’s hand and leapt to her feet. “Tetia?!”

“It’s no good!” said Tetia from above, furtive, frantic. “He’s gonna find us! He’s looking for Rili—he’s mad! He—eep!”

Rili paled. Richeh tried not to panic. She spun on her heel, pointing into the rain.

“Rili, go hide! Go to Richeh’s atelier and hide!”

But Rili was already scrambling away, in the opposite direction, kicking up dust and dread.

“I have to…I have to get back…”

Richeh ran after him. “Then I’ll go with you!”

“Richehlette!”

Richeh jumped. Rili grasped her hands this time. He spoke with sudden strength, with desperate fervor, breathing heavily.

“He’s angry with me,” Rili said. “Not you. I won’t let him hurt you anymore. You go and hide. Please, Richeh.”

Rili’s teary eyes reflected Richeh’s own. But now her heart stirred. Because—because Rili had done it. He’d just done it, just now. He’d spoken from the heart.

And Richeh knew—she could get him to do it again.

“Richeh’s turn to say no,” she said. She took a firm step forward, leading her bewildered brother by the hand again. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

“C’mon, c’mon!!”

Agott and Tetia sprinted out the kitchen door just as the headteacher prowled into view. They veered into the garden—Too sparse! No place to hide!—and kept on going, squeezing through the alleyway. As they shuffled, panting, panicked, Richeh’s head appeared between them, jostling with the pot.

“Where are you going?!” Her voice wobbled with every frantic step. “Why are you running away?”

Agott shot her an incredulous look. “You heard Tetia! He’s right behind us!”

“We’re not—oof!” They bounced over a steep step. “We’re not scared of him! We’re gonna talk to him!”

“What?!” Tetia stopped short, jerking Agott backward. They were out front now, where the atelier met the street, and a few people pointed and whispered in passing. They lowered the pot to the ground.

“You mean…he’s really gonna do it?” Agott asked, heart racing. She knew well the agony of speaking up to a severely strict adult. Her hands tightened around the pot handle.

“Yes,” said Richeh, at the same time as a harried voice squeaked, “No!”

Riliphin shimmied through the opening until he was elbow to elbow with Richeh. Richeh gave him an affronted look, but he aimed a dogged frown right back.

“No,” he said again.

Richeh glared. “What do you mean, no?”

“I can’t—”

“You lied to Richeh!”

“I never said I was going to talk to him!”

“Not just you! We are! Together!”

“No!” Rili revealed a streak as stubborn as his sister’s. They glared at each other, gripping the rim of the pot, refusing to back down.

A few more witches lingered, intrigued by the raised voices, by the noise from an atelier so long entombed in silence. Agott and Tetia exchanged a fraught look. Tetia opened her mouth, wanting to interject, but she was too conflict-avoidant. Agott didn’t have that problem.

“You can do it, Rili!” she nearly shouted, startling the siblings into silence.

“Yeah!” Tetia added, a bit timidly.

Agott made two, piercing fists, flush with adrenaline. Never mind the hypocrisy, coming from her—

“It’s been done before. It’s possible. Once you declare your intention to leave—” She sliced the air with a decisive sweep of her arm. “It’s over! You never have to look at, or talk to, or even think about that asshole ever again!”

Agott thought it was a decent speech, but Rili wasn’t listening. He had gone even paler. He plunged back into the pot, and he grabbed Richeh’s ankle and pulled her down with him.

A shadow fell over the pot in their wake. That was odd. There weren’t any clouds in the Great Hall…Agott caught Tetia’s eye. Only then did she feel the chill creep up her neck. Together—slowly, dreadfully—both of them turned.

Richeh’s old teacher loomed over them, vast and seething and still.

“Pray tell, to whom are you referring as an ‘asshole?’ ”

Agott swallowed. She spread her shaking arm to hide the pot, and in the act her hat tumbled from her robes and fell onto the cobblestones. The headteacher knelt with a menacing lurch, making Agott flinch. He lifted the hat and regarded it with disdain, scowling through his wispy goatee, turning up his nose.

“This uniform…” His scowl deepened. “This is the third time in as many weeks I’ve dealt with this atelier. Your master does a pitiful job, reining you in…teaching you manners.”

“G-give me my hat back,” stammered Agott.

The headteacher paused. Then, with a haughty scoff, he dumped it at her feet. She snatched it off the ground as he swept around her, approaching Tetia next, intimidating her. Tetia likewise tried to conceal the pot, but the tall man caught on; he leered over her shoulder.

“My apprentice disappears…and you two show up. Coincidence?”

“Th—they’re not here,” said Tetia.

“Don’t bother,” said Agott.

He raised his eyebrows. “Mind if I check?”

He thrust out an arm, and something flew from his heavy sleeve into the pot. Smoke began to billow from the pot, thick, charging columns of it. Agott and Tetia watched in horror as the man dragged the smoking pot into the center of the street. It trembled, swelling and swelling, leaking smoke, fit to burst—and it did.

BANG! Shards flew. Agott and Tetia shielded their faces. Richeh and Rili tumbled into the street, coughing, covered with ashes.

The headteacher took a step back, kicking away debris, loath to sully his robes.

“I despise cowardly magic. This was necessary, to account for any back door exits, of which you seem to be so fond.” He flicked a hand. “Come, Riliphin.”

Riliphin tried to untangle his cloak, to stagger to his feet. He was clumsy and slow, coughing and flailing. Taking too long. He fell back onto his knees.

“Riliphin!”

Riliphin trembled, kneeling, abject. Petrified. And Agott agonized. She wanted to run, to get help, but she couldn’t move her feet. She was frozen, too. Besides, she didn’t want to leave Richeh and Riliphin behind. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t stand it. What should she—what could she—

“Stop—” she began to say, but her words trailed away—for at that moment, Richeh crawled across the ground. Shards caught and tore her dragging cloak. She crawled until she stopped between Riliphin and his master, and she clambered to her feet and spread her arms out wide.

“Go away,” she said.

The headteacher stared. Then he chuckled. He grinned. But his grin was a thin veneer for his fury, his embarrassment at being so blatantly defied.

“Richehlette, Richehlette," he said, clicking his tongue. “You were so eager to throw away your education. And now you attempt to lead your brother astray. To have him follow in your naïve, juvenile footsteps. From the beginning until now, you have always been foolish and dull.”

With a toss of his cloak, he shoved Richeh aside. She threw her hands out to brace her fall, and she sliced her palm open against a potsherd. She winced with pain, squeezing her hand into her dress. Blood seeped into the soot-stained fabric. Agott’s heart clenched. She heard Tetia gasp.

Ponderously, ever prowling, the headteacher stalked toward Riliphin.

“Riliphin, however, is an obedient child,” he said. “Flighty, and cowardly…weak. And still rather deeply naïve. But in the end, you always show respect where it is due, don’t you?”

He leaned too close to Riliphin and cupped his hand around his chin, dragging his fingers through a stray piece of hair. Then he straightened up; he extended the same hand.

“Come along, Riliphin. You are my apprentice…not your sister’s.”

No…no! C’mon, Rili! Agott shook her head, stricken. Tetia crossed her hands over her heart. Richeh cried out in desperation. Fresh tears ran through smudges of ashes. All of their hearts sank in tandem, for their brother was silent.

With painstaking slowness, Rili lifted a feeble hand.

“Good boy,” said the teacher. His smile was sickening.

Rili raised his head, his hollow eyes. They shone with…anger.

He pushed his teacher’s hand away.

“N-no,” he said.

Richeh, Tetia, and Agott all gasped.

The push was weak. The man’s arm barely budged. Yet it was an absolute affront. The headteacher bristled. His eyes flashed.

“What did you say?”

“No,” repeated Rili, stronger this time. “No. No.” It seemed to be the present extent of his vocabulary. But he proclaimed it with fervor. “No. No! No!”

The headteacher snapped. He grabbed Riliphin’s wrist and twisted it, hard.

“Remember who you’re speaking to!!” he roared.

“I advise you to do the same.”

A frigid blast of water shot past Agott. It slammed into the teacher’s chest, knocking him flat on his ass.

Then a thick smokescreen engulfed the shocked Riliphin. It embraced him and cradled him, holding him upright. Richeh ran to him and dove into his arms, and Riliphin held her tightly as the smoke poured around them, surrounding, protecting them.

“You—!”

The headteacher rose, a glowering heap of sopping wet robes. He took a squelching step toward the siblings—but this time a wall of flame blazed through his path, singing his robes, cutting him off.

Agott’s brain fought to keep pace with her pounding heart. She recognized all of this vivid, precise magic. Her spirit soared, relieved, revived. Tetia grabbed her hand—they looked together—sure enough—

Professor Qifrey stormed right through the wall of fire. He seized the headteacher’s cloak and wrenched the much larger man down, til their faces were inches apart.

“Get the fuck away from my apprentices,” he growled.

“Look who it is,” sneered the headteacher, lip curling. “The poacher strikes again.”

“Yes,” Professor Qifrey spat. “Worthless pieces of shit are drawing quite the reward. Heaven knows why.”

“Folks are glad to be rid of ’em, that’s why.”

Professor Olruggio quelled the flames. He flanked Professor Qifrey’s right-hand side. His stance was casual, but his palm quire was open; his fingers flexed around his wand.

Professor Qifrey shook the man with every sharp enunciation. “Glad to let him rot at the bottom of the ocean. To forget he was ever a stain on the fucking page.”

“This is harassment,” the headteacher hissed. He gripped Professor Qifrey’s wrists, intent to throw him off. “Violent, malicious harassment. I’ll report you for this. Oh—” He barked out a manic laugh. “I’ll ruin you, you bastard Outsid—”

“You sure you wanna do that?” Professor Olruggio took one quiet, yet no less arresting, step closer. “You’re gonna give a full report of what just happened here? In front of dozens of witches?”

The murmurs of onlookers seeped through the swirling smoke. The headteacher shivered. His eyes narrowed.

“My students were stolen from me,” he said. “I was exercising my right as a teacher—”

“Alas…I’m afraid you no longer possess such a right.”

The smoke parted and made way for Lord Beldaruit himself.

“There is no need to report anything to me,” said the sage, his tone as soft as death. “I have seen enough.”

With a staid flick of his wrist, he swept the street clear of debris. Another flick, and two tendrils of fresh smoke snaked around the headteacher, wrapping him from head to foot, cinching tight.

“We shall await the Knights’ arrival,” said Lord Beldaruit.

The headteacher sputtered. “Th…the Knights?!”

“You’re lucky.”

Professor Qifrey gave one final cutting, baleful look. Then he shoved him away.

The headteacher collapsed, muttering empty accusations of injustice, struggling in vain against the bonds. Professor Olruggio’s flames sprang up once more; they encircled him, scorching him from view. Hopefully, that was the last time they would ever have to see him.

Agott reeled. She felt woozy and depleted. She might’ve collapsed on the spot, too, if not for Tetia tugging her toward the fray.

“Professor!”

Professor Qifrey hastened to meet them, kneeling before them, wringing his hands and then holding them out—like he wanted to hug them but wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“Are you girls alright?!”

“I’m okay,” said Tetia.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Agott. “I’m just tired. But I’m worried about—”

As if on cue, Richeh squeezed herself between Tetia and Agott, snuggling close. Agott sighed with relief.

“Richeh…are you alright?” Professor Qifrey grimaced; what an insufficient question. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Richeh hid her hand behind her back, too late; Professor Qifrey saw the cut, the bloodstains on her dress. He gasped. “Did he—”

Richeh murmured, “He pushed me. That’s all.”

“That’s all—” A terrible shadow passed over the professor’s face. He dragged his hand over it, hiding it for a moment—afraid that his anger would frighten them, Agott thought—and when he looked at them again, he had contained it to a steely flash behind his eye. He opened his arms: an offer.

Richeh scrambled into them at once, and Tetia didn’t wait, either. Agott’s first thought—That’s babyish, I’m fine—was overcome by a wave of need, a need for comfort as childish as it was urgent. She fell into the group hug, wrapping her arms over Tetia and Richeh as her professor’s arms held all three of them fast, rubbing their backs, keeping them safe.

They stayed that way awhile. Around them, the crowds dispersed; the murmurs of the ocean mingled with their distant chatter.

“Professor…”

“Yes, Richeh?”

“Will Rili live with us?”

Professor Qifrey hummed a little. “Mm...I’m not sure. I believe that is what he and Lord Beldaruit are discussing.”

Richeh shifted, wiggling her little nose, and gazed over his shoulder. Sure enough, Lord Beldaruit and Riliphin lingered by the atelier steps, a safe distance from Olruggio’s flames. Lord Bel exuded reassurance; Rili cowered, fiddling with his soiled cape.

Richeh watched them for a long moment. Then she nodded.

Agott’s restlessness soon overcame her. She shimmied free, and Tetia and Richeh followed her lead. Professor Qifrey sat back on his heels, summoning a small smile. It was pained, a little wry, but it was also quiet and proud.

“You three were very brave,” he said. “And you three also had me worried sick. So please…”

With a sigh, he stood. He brushed off his robes; he offered them his hand. His smile spread, crinkling his eye.

“For our next special birthday day…let’s have cake at home, alright?!”

Tetia giggled. Richeh hid her blush behind her hair. Even Agott had to crack a little smile.

They had cake at Beldaruit’s house that night.

Riliphin sat in the far corner of the sitting room. He had changed into a simple sweater and trousers; he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he seemed most unwilling to join the proceedings. Even the chair he had chosen…Beldaruit couldn’t help but notice it was Qifrey’s old spot; could not help but be reminded of his taciturn, terrified former apprentice.

That lost little boy, now a grown man, sat cross-legged in the center of the rug, refilling his students’ teacups and slicing off second helpings of the cake they had brought over. He smiled with them. He laughed with them. He seemed altogether at ease around them, and they around him. If Beldaruit considered it for any length of time, he was tempted to conclude it was a miracle…and yet, he had witnessed the grueling effort, and the struggling, burgeoning love as it had grown. He would not chalk up his child’s efforts to the facile magic of miracles.

No. This life of Qifrey’s…he had forged, and was forging it, himself. And Beldaruit was beyond proud…and he was certain Riliphin could likewise forge a life of his own. Beldaruit would support him as well as he could.

He coughed a little. He could sense his illness catching up with him; he felt his energy waning. He addressed the rustling chandelier. “How goes it, Shining Torch?”

He caught the wink of a cheeky grin. “Glad you asked…”

Olruggio tossed his wand into his tool bag and tugged it with him to the floor. He propped his hands on his hips and looked round at them all, equal parts eager and anxious.

“Have you finished?” said Qifrey, tilting his head back, smiling openly at his dear friend. “We’re so curious!”

“Yes, yes!” Tetia leapt to her feet.

Agott righted Tetia’s sloshing teacup. “What is it?”

“Alrighty,” Olruggio said. He rubbed his nose. “Somebody name an animal.”

“Owlcat,” said Agott at once, and immediately blushed. She waved her hands. “But someone else should come up with something better than that.”

Tetia, ever attuned to inclusivity, said, “Hmmm. Maybe Rili could choose?”

Everyone’s eyes found Riliphin, and he shrank in the face of this sudden attention, peering over his tightly drawn knees. But little Richeh rose from her fortress of cushions and padded over to her brother. She climbed over the arm of the chair and leaned in, feet dangling, to whisper in his ear. Riliphin listened, unfurling a bit. The rest of them waited. They wouldn’t interrupt.

Richeh soon finished, sliding onto her stocking-feet. The siblings regarded one another, and between them rose a precious, heavy, almost grieving silence. Then Riliphin knotted his fingers together. He cast a fleeting glance toward Olruggio.

“I do…like horses,” he mumbled. “The ones that…pull the bubble carriages…”

His eyes fell to Richeh, seeking her approval. She gave two punchy, bandaged thumbs-up, fierce with pride.

“Good choice,” said Olruggio. “Okay. Here’s how it works.”

He flipped to a fresh page of his palm quire. Qifrey and his girls gathered around him, watching him sketch in quick, light strokes. Beldaruit craned his neck. “A decorative spell?”

“You or Qifrey would be better at this than me,” Olruggio grumbled. “Horses aren’t my forte…anyway. Lord Bel’s right. You draw the decorative spell of your choice…an animal works well, let’s stick with those for now…”

He flipped the sketch around to show his audience. They exclaimed with appreciation. Then he flipped it back and drew a deft, lightning-quick circle to complete the seal.

“Make sure you’re standing under the chandelier,” Olruggio said, “and line up your spell with the center. Close as you can get.”

He enacted what he was describing, lifting his quire, just as a glittering mare emerged from the ether, tossing its mane and cantering within the circle.

“And…”

Suddenly, a beam of light, soft and warm and wide, descended from the chandelier. It enveloped Olruggio’s spell, and the horse dissolved within it; then it faded. The atelier shared looks of confusion and frowned at Olruggio, whose crooked smile only spread. He winked.

“Look up.”

They squinted into the candlelight. Qifrey discovered it first. He tapped Tetia’s shoulder, pointing eagerly, childlike in his wonder.

“Look there!” he breathed. “Do you see it?”

Agott blurted, “I see it!”

“Where, where?!” Tetia danced on her toes. “I can’t—oh!”

“Richeh sees it, too!”

The candlelight bent as the flames themselves morphed into ten little horses. No—one horse, galloping between the candles. Each flame morphed and flattened and stretched, from horse into fiery wake and back to horse again. It was intricate—resplendent—

“Magnificent!!” Beldaruit cried. He clapped his hands. “Well done, dear Olruggio!! My sitting room will be the talk of the Hall!”

Olruggio’s smile was impossibly cheeky. “Glad you like it. But there’s more.”

Qifrey gazed with growing admiration at his friend. “The crystals—?”

All of them tore their eyes away, and all of them exclaimed with renewed joy when they saw it: A crystalline horse, almost life-size, galloped through the room, mirroring the flaming horse’s movements. She was made of light, of innumerable, dazzling facets of crystal, and she ran through the furnishings, right through the clamorous girls and the happy Qifrey and the triumphant Olruggio, and right through Beldaruit, too—he couldn’t help but flinch, but it was a thrilling feeling—his entire body, filling with light, from head to toe. He gasped—unused to any feeling in his legs, however brief, however fanciful. And he hid away the feeling in his heart.

The horse of crystal light slowed to a walk. She approached Riliphin, slowly, shyly, as though she could see him there in the corner, admiring her from afar. And Riliphin rose to meet her. He wound his fingers through her shimmering mane, as though he could feel her. He lay his forehead against hers, whispering secret words; so quiet, and yet so full of sadness…so full of love.

The magic lingered after their guests had gone.

The horse had folded her legs and curled upon the rug to rest. Riliphin sat beside her, staring into her swirling, fading mane, adrift in fretful thought. And Beldaruit longed to stay by the boy’s side, to be a comforting presence…but he was exhausted.

“I must retire,” he said softly. “But, please, remain here for as long as you like. There are many rooms…” He stifled a cough. “I shall have someone prepare a bed for you.”

Riliphin did not look up.

“You are too kind, my lord,” he said. His voice broke just enough; Beldaruit perceived the renewal of tears.

Beldaruit urged his sealchair forward and knelt beside the boy. He briefly lay a hand upon his shoulder. “You know, Riliphin. If you do not wish to join your sister…”

Riliphin groaned. “I can’t.”

And Beldaruit set aside a sigh, voicing instead a sympathetic hum. “I respect your feelings on the matter.” Whether or not I agree with them—they are your feelings, after all. “I only mean to say, my offer still stands.”

Riliphin risked a look at him then. Beldaruit managed a wan, reassuring smile.

“If you wish to become my apprentice…I would be honored to be your professor.”

Riliphin broke eye contact, intent upon hiding his grimace, his feelings, his tears. The horse at his side faded further, and he plunged a hand into the light, desperate to hold onto her; but it was finally time. Her brief season had ended. Riliphin’s grimace deepened. He choked back a sob.

“Don’t despair,” whispered Beldaruit. “After all…you can always conjure another.”

Riliphin made no reply; and Beldaruit abided with him, waiting for his tears to ebb, for his shoulders to stop shaking. He could not leave the lad in such a state. A state which his nagging had been the cause of…

But then the child lifted his bereft hand to grasp at his periwinkle ponytail. He wound his fingers through the ribbon there. And he came very close to offering a very sad smile.

“That…sounds like something Richehlette would say,” he murmured.

Beldaruit chuckled. “She is wise for her age.”

His laugh morphed into a cough. Riliphin, silent as a ghost, stood, and he reached out a tentative hand; he patted Beldaruit’s back until the sage could catch his breath.

Surely it was all his coughing which had brought about his rush of tears.

EPILOGUE

Beldaruit’s tray of mail overflowed the next morning.

A pile of gifts addressed to Riliphin, flecked with rain, rife with fluttering tags: Happy birthday!! We love you!! Have a great birthday. Many happy returns, Riliphin! All the best, kiddo. HAPPY BIRTHDAY RILI LOVE RICHEHLETTE <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Good heavens,” said Beldaruit.

Riliphin answered the door of his new room.

“For you,” Beldaruit said, offering the tray. “Happy birthday! I had no idea!”

Riliphin, speechless, sagged under the weight of the parcels.

Beldaruit had to smile. “It’s official, then?”

“O…official?”

“Your new address?”

Riliphin blinked. He blinked and blinked.

“...It seems to be,” he said. And he startled them both with a laugh.

END