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Despite my best efforts, days passed without change. Even the slowest pace stole my breath and weakened my legs, and Holmes’ worry only increased when I finally spent the fourth day in bed. He did not leave my side for more than five minutes the entire day.
The extra rest made the difference, however. By the fifth day, my strength had returned enough that I did not collapse into a chair on reaching the sitting room and, while I would have told one of my patients to wait another day or two, I made no protest when Holmes produced train tickets shortly before noon.
“You have everything?”
“Of course.” He waved the question away, more focused on seeing me reach the settee than the way I scanned the empty cottage. “All in the two trunks you indicated. I have no idea what Mr. Kringle did to them, but I could fit more if necessary.”
Nicolas’ burst of magic had expanded those trunks the Christmas I told him our “post-retirement plan,” but I could only nod, slightly more out of breath than I would admit to Holmes. Leaning heavily on my stick corrected my failing balance to claim one side of the settee, where a deep breath hid behind a long glance at the surrounding shelves and tables. Even the stack of books Torsten had gathered for me had been packed away.
“When is the train?”
“In just over two hours,” he answered shortly, keen gaze seeing everything I tried to hide. “Are you fit to travel?”
Not comfortably, but the ride would not send me into another episode. His worried hovering the last few days announced nothing else mattered, and I saw no reason to admit the fatigue trying to press me into the cushion. Holmes would not relax until assured he would not find me on the floor.
Nor would I, honestly. My father had been twenty years younger and had passed instantly. Combined with a few other growing symptoms that I had done my best to hide, I knew better than to believe my continued survival anything but a miracle.
“I’ll be fine. If you already double checked my wardrobe and the space under the floorboards?” I paused long enough to let him nod. “Then we can go whenever you are ready.”
We would need to leave much earlier than normal to account for my current pace, but while he obviously saw through at least part of my assurance, another moment decided not to voice his deduction.
“We can go after you eat,” he corrected. “Stay there.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, once more failing to silence the surprise that escaped when Torsten’s dishes appeared on the counter. I made no effort to hide a chuckle. Torsten’s parting words had promised enough supplies to last until we reached the train, and I had told Holmes as much, but five days still saw him start at the low pop that announced a fresh plate. I would have expected him to quell the reaction by now.
Perhaps he played up the surprise to earn my reaction? Holmes would always be a performer at heart, after all, and that might explain why I could still hear him grumbling about “magicals not obeying the laws of physics.” He knew better than to expect the food to stop arriving. The protector I had met by chance years ago had quickly adopted me as “his” human, and with my recovery interfering with my mobility, lack of food had become a true problem. Wherever he had gone when Holmes returned, Torsten’s very nature demanded he do everything in his power to negate any danger, including staying close enough to ensure Holmes need not leave me alone for long in search of food. My friend reentered the sitting room a couple of minutes later, two steaming plates in hand.
And a feigned scowl for the grin I had not yet killed. He moved the side table in without comment, however, keen eyes confirming I ate even as he quickly cleared his own plate. Torsten’s magic saw the dishes disappear as soon as we sat back. Holmes eyed me in silent question.
“Get the trunks in the wagon first.”
And check we have everything. I could not reach the wagon alone, but I also did not want to watch him drag our luggage through the door without being able to help, nor would he want to leave me in the wagon for longer than he needed to lock the door. A nod of agreement sent him toward the bedrooms as I leaned into the settee’s cushion.
Two weeks. Less than two weeks, and our entire lives had changed. Not three hours after Holmes’ departure for London, a shot of pain had interrupted a novel, and I had barely gotten a message to Nicolas before darkness closed in. I had not expected to wake up.
The doctor Nicolas had sent had not expected me to wake, either, judging by the relief I had glimpsed the next morning. Mild only in the sense that I had not died instantly—no matter what I had told Holmes—Doctor Baldrum had quickly started me on a mixture of human and magical medicines to stave off another attack and help me recover from this one. I remained fully aware that his efforts had saved my life.
“Watson?”
Possibly Holmes’ too, if changing places in Switzerland truly gave the same outcome. I had only survived that because of Mary, which meant Holmes would not have outlived me by more than a few months. I would be sure to thank Nicolas for the amulet—
“Watson, can you hear me?”
Cold fingers suddenly pressed into my neck, startling me out of a light doze. I opened my eyes to find Holmes almost leaning over me. Relief pushed away a burst of fear when I focused on him.
“You are sure you can travel?”
Though not all of his unease. Not when five minutes’ silence had sent me to sleep. He frowned even as my gesture brushed away his question in favor of help reaching my feet. He did not need to know just how much I wanted to go back to bed.
He might have guessed anyway, but the strength that had once unbent a fire poker easily helped me upright. One hand draped my arm over his shoulders to support my weight, and we reached the wagon many times faster than I could have alone. Several pillows and a large blanket already overly padded half the bench. I would have to rib him for that later.
Not now, however. My token attempts to mitigate my weight had still left me breathless, and he locked the door and returned before I could form anything resembling words. I hid my face in chasing pillows.
“Watson?”
“Fine.” Sluggish reflexes barely prevented one of his many cushions from bouncing to the ground. “Drive slowly unless you want to leave a few pillows in Sussex.”
Huffed amusement came to my side of the bench to gather every pillow I did not use, all of which disappeared into the nearer trunk. Whether an excess of worried caution or simply an excess, at least I did not have to spend the drive keeping track of far too many pillows.
“Do you need to sit in the back?”
I would have to better watch my posture, however. The question pulled me out of the half-reclined position caused by one too many pillows. Wordless reply dropped the offending item in the back to let me sit more upright, and Holmes flicked the reins to send us toward town.
Though not without watching me. Repeated glances followed every breath, every adjustment, every involuntary wince at every bump, and when I shifted against the hard wood yet again, he finally scooted over to press against my side. Worry deepened when I willingly leaned on him.
I could do nothing about that, however. Exhaustion loosened my muscles and dulled my reflexes, and every hole in the wide, dusty road tried to knock me over. I probably should have ridden in the back, if only to eliminate the danger of falling out.
No matter. Leaning on Holmes accomplished the same thing, even if it did increase his hovering, and we reached the station without issue. The semi-familiar station clerk behind the ticket window prompted a question.
“Do we need to stop at the counter?”
“No.”
Good. I made no reply as the reins looped over the hitching post to hold the horses in place until Stackhurst could come for them, and he easily thumped the trunks on the ground and added the remaining quilts before helping me down from the bench. Nicolas’ magic covering the trunks caught the attention of a nearby lutin.
“I kin help ye with that?”
Holmes stared for only a moment too long before remembering the niceties I had taught him years ago, then several coins made both the lutin and our trunks disappear, undoubtedly straight into the Polar Line’s cargo area some fifty feet away. The perk of magic that Holmes had seen many times before still made him watch in obvious interest. He did not notice my thoughts until he pulled my arm over his shoulders once more.
“Do not start.”
Amusement escaped in a faint laugh. “I said nothing.”
“Your face said it for you.” He carefully avoided a large rock in the path. “You know how useful that would be.”
Useful for mischief, probably, but I knew what he meant. Even agreed, though disagreement was more fun. I forced all emotion from my words instead.
“The London underworld would have trembled with fear at a detective that could travel instantaneously.”
“As if ye would deny the ability given tha chance.”
Playful scolding carried from my other side as Torsten appeared beside me, but Holmes’ nod of greeting abruptly flipped to worry and stole anything he might have said. Long fingers gripped my arm even harder.
“Hello, Torsten.” Pausing mid step both smiled at the nisse and let me catch my breath. Holmes still stared in horror. “Give Holmes’ brain a moment to catch up. The fast route still amazes him.”
More like the small guardian’s presence had shoved the dangers of travel to the front of Holmes’ mind. I would not say as much, however, and a pointed look at Torsten begged him not to voice his reason for joining us.
He agreed—mostly. Two seconds stared at me before one hand landed on my belt, and a firm tug supported far more of my weight than should be possible for his size. Magic flared to form five pieces of wood into a floating chair.
“Sit.”
My scowl protested the canine comparison—and made him grin—but a glance at Holmes’ obvious alarm made me accept the chair without protest. Torsten’s magic pushed me into the train car much faster and easier than I could have managed even with Holmes’ help.
The magical assistance did nothing for the concern lining Holmes’ forehead, however. My lack of protest had probably revealed just how close I had been to needing to sit for a few minutes. His silent gesture ignored the array of sparsely populated chairs, sofas, and settees to send us to the bed in the corner, where a firm grip on my elbow steadied me to the mattress.
“Holmes—”
“We reach Thurso two hours before dawn, do we not?”
“Yes, but—”
He failed to hide a frown with a glance at Torsten’s dissolving magic. “The sofas are too short to sleep.”
For him, maybe, but I did not argue further. I knew better than to think he would crowd me on the narrow mattress, and the armchair he carried in a moment later confirmed his intentions. He cared more about me not wanting to get up for the next twelve hours than where he would sit for the same duration. Even he knew the Polar Line armchairs were not built for a human’s comfort.
Or anyone’s, really, as evidenced by Torsten magically altering another chair to fit his smaller frame. With magical creatures varying so much in size, the designers had furnished the car with settees, sofas, armchairs, and tables fit for nymphs and dryads—the larger beings did not usually ride the train—and added step stools for any smaller being that did not want to use magic. He would be more comfortable letting me rest on a sofa and taking the opposite one for himself.
Even voicing the deduction would not change his mind however, and my pleading glance made a wave of Torsten’s hand soften the chair Holmes claimed. I propped myself against the headboard as Torsten purposely started an argumentative lesson on the limits of magic.
At least Torsten’s presence would prevent Holmes from hovering over me for the next twelve hours.
“Watson.”
One hand gently shook my shoulder as a calloused finger poked my arm. We had finished supper only a few minutes ago. Why did they prod me?
“Come on, laddie. We’re approachin’ Thurso.”
Thurso. Right. I had settled back against my pillow after we ate, but humans could not ride the final portion of the Polar Line. If we approached Thurso, Holmes and I would need to get off soon.
Which meant I needed to get up. Torsten prodded my arm again, but familiar fingers grabbed my wrist as bleary eyes blinked at the ceiling. I needed another few seconds to focus on where Holmes stood beside me. The same fear that had plagued him for nearly a week lined his forehead and put dark bags beneath his eyes.
“Can you stand?”
Yes. In a minute. I needed to wake up first, and a careful stretch broke Holmes’ hold to gradually push myself off the mound of pillows Holmes had created behind me. Mischief threw one at him.
That he ducked, naturally, but he could not quite hide amusement beneath feigned irritation. More than silently complaining about his pile of pillows, the mild prank released some of his worry. I would be fine. We simply had to move slowly.
Or Torsten could help. The flare of magic that recreated yesterday’s chair undoubtedly also hid us from unknowledgeable humans, and I had only to stand up before I could sit once more. While I preferred to avoid feeding the fear hounding Holmes, I could not deny that this made travel much easier. The magic that could not use the fast route to take me to the platform easily floated my chair across the train car and out the door, and he led us over to a secluded bench.
“Are we not going to the Gorfunkle?”
He shook his head, glancing at me though most of his attention waved down a passing lutin.
“Thurso see’s tha big man oft’n enough,” he replied once our trunks rested behind us, “‘n ye don’t need ta be climbin’ that hill. Sleigh’s parked nearby. ‘E’s prob’ly just waitin’ fer the platform ta clear.”
Nearby? I stilled, then paid more attention to the amulet I had ignored with Torsten so close, and just as he had said, the generalized presence of a highly magical village grew incredibly more concentrated some two hundred yards away. Concentrated effort could almost make out the reindeer’s conversation.
Not quite, though, and Holmes’ hand on my wrist snapped me out of the attempt. A frown scolded his hovering even as I refocused on the station around me. Predawn light barely illuminated the humans and magicals alike bustling here and there, each on their way towards a bed that would not kick them off in a few hours. No one wanted to linger in a train station, and less than thirty minutes finally left us alone but for the station clerk and a few employees.
Over there. Beside the bench.
And eight reindeer pulling my friend’s sleigh. Dasher’s voice provided the slightest warning before rushing wind heralded the sleigh unusually bereft of bells. A line of reindeer blurred past to make Nicolas bounce to a halt directly in front of me, though a moment’s silence probably spoke to Dasher before Nicolas faced us.
“Good morning—”
Torsten’s answering nod probably carried some telepathically cheeky hello, but Nicolas’ initial greeting faded beneath utter surprise when he looked at me. While Nicolas had sent Doctor Baldrum and probably received reports on my progress, he had not seen me since the incident. Either he involuntarily sifted through my thoughts to gather the information he wanted, or my appearance had noticeably changed in less than two weeks.
Whichever the case, his astonishment steadily strengthened Holmes’ grip on my shoulder. “Stop that.”
He jumped, then forcibly replaced the smile of greeting as he stepped clear of the sleigh.
“John. Mr. Holmes. Torsten.” A slightly longer than normal handshake easily saw everything I hid from Holmes. “Your trunks can go in the back. Torsten, are you headed to the Pole as well?”
“Aye, sir. If ye’ll take the chair?” Magic flared to pass control of my chair to Nicolas, and Torsten nodded his thanks as he maneuvered our trunks into the storage compartment on the back of the sleigh. Much larger inside than out, they quickly disappeared as Nicolas floated me high enough to hover about an inch over the seat. His mischievous grin provided my only warning before my chair disappeared completely to drop me onto his much softer bench. Mild irritation became smirking sarcasm.
“Alright, King Cole. Do I need to provide a fiddle?”
The old nickname produced a single, nearly barked laugh, but amusement lit his eyes to banish the lingering worry. For a few seconds, anyway. Holmes sat between me and the edge as Nicolas claimed the reins, and Torsten had just enough time to climb onto the back for the scenic view before a silent order bounced us over the platform. Twelve hours’ rest let me lean forward enough to watch the city fall away. I always enjoyed watching people and buildings grow ever smaller.
City soon gave way to ocean, however, and the ride itself passed in near silence. Holmes and Nicolas failed to hide just how much they watched me, but while conversation would have eased that disquiet and made the time go faster, everything I tried received single syllable responses from them and nothing from Torsten. I finally occupied myself by counting fishing boats and whales in the water below.
And dozing, some. The oceans north of Scotland remained much too cold for even the hardiest fisherman, and we moved too quickly to spy the whale pods that should dot the waves. The second half of the ride slipped away with a speed confirmed when the sleigh dipped to rouse me from an unintended nap. Groggy movements pulled me off Holmes’ shoulder to check the ground below.
“Watson?”
Holmes’ murmur combined a host of questions into a single word, all revolving around how many hours I still slept each day, but I pretended not to hear. The glistening city growing steadily closer put us less than an hour from learning our Ages, and he would not relax until certain I would not have another episode. Any reply would only invite more hovering.
“Who is building a ship?”
“One of the dwarf clans decided to attempt a ship made of stone,” Nicolas answered though his eyes remained on our landing. “Spells work best when carved into hard rock, and if they can make the hold watertight, the faeries can enchant buoyancy, navigation, and anything else. That is their third attempt.”
Possibly last, by Nicolas’ tone, but I did not comment further. The city grew ever larger until Dasher landed us just outside the candlelit—though strangely quiet—Great House, and Nicolas freed the reindeer from their harnesses as quiet pleasantries let Torsten disappear into the early morning sunlight. He would probably catch up to us in a few days, depending on how long we had to wait before reaching our Ages of Decision. Not everyone could transition at the same age, after all. We could have hours or years to wait.
No one died before reaching their Age, however, which meant Holmes would soon stop casually grabbing my wrist. The hovering had grown irritating days ago.
Thanks and well-wishes sent the reindeer cantering toward the stables, and Nicolas carefully laid out the harnesses for later before magic flared yet again, this time creating a floating chair out of nothing instead of scrap. My scowled warning prevented him from levitating me out of the sleigh, but I needed only a few seconds to step from the bench to the chair he hovered nearby. We passed through deserted hallways before I finally voiced my question.
“Where is everyone?”
About an hour after sunup, the entire city should have teemed with people starting their day, but every hallway we walked remained utterly deserted. Even the aerial view of the houses surrounding the Great House had seen only shadows behind windows.
“Sleeping or elsewhere.” We rounded a corner into yet another empty corridor. “Even Meredith will not leave her rooms for another hour or so, but any that are awake know to avoid the route to the transitional room as much as possible. A human moving and seeking their Age on the same day usually has some mitigating circumstance, and they hardly need a welcoming crowd staring at their reason for coming. Only the three of us will be present.”
An interesting tradition. A door opened then quickly closed up ahead to confirm his words, but while I would probably ask more about this later, a glimpse of Holmes’ face changed my comment to the question he would not ask.
“Would you describe the process again?”
“Several born immortals worked together to build the room when humans started losing their magic,” he answered willingly. His telepathy would have heard Holmes’ question before I saw the silenced curiosity. “As this is my city, I anchored the working instead of joining it, so I do not fully know the specifics, but expressing your desire to live at the Pole in the first circle will let me see your Age of Decision. Once you have reached that Age, enter the second circle to transition. Do not enter the second circle until you have passed your Age of Decision.”
The forewarning—however slight—eased Holmes’ need to plan and relaxed some of the tension lining his shoulders, but he still walked almost uncomfortably close to my side. We turned the final corner before I could find another topic, however.
“Don’t move more than a foot inside the room,” Nicolas warned. “You will have to walk from here.”
Because the magic of the room overwhelmed Nicolas’ magic, he had told me. Even the amulet in my pocket may not work inside this room, though I would not know until I entered, and riding in a chair held together by magic begged to be dumped on the floor. Only when Holmes had steadied me to my feet did Nicolas open a heavy, stone door to usher us into a long room.
An entirely stone room. Dark, magically shaped stone formed the floor, walls, ceiling, and even a small pillar against the opposite wall. Lines and symbols—probably the written form of the First Language, Nicolas’ native tongue that he had refused to let me learn—patterned the stone from floor to ceiling and over the ceiling itself, but the floor remained entirely smooth except for two large ritual circles. With one not five feet from the door and the other spanning just under half of the room, these were obviously the “circles” Nicolas had mentioned as being part of the transition. Magic flared as the door closed behind us, then Nicolas’ personal magic faded behind something larger. Something other. The magic of the room expanded in a flash to make every line glow for less than a second. Only when the glow faded did Nicolas gesture for one of us to move forward. Holmes pointedly checked my balance then let go with the slightest push. Clearly I would be going first.
Not that I minded. My cane easily maintained traction over the perfectly level floor, and Nicolas moved to stand near the opposite wall as I fully entered the circle. A moment positioned my feet before I met his gaze.
“I would like to make the Pole my permanent home.”
Magic exploded. A burst of color rose from every line and symbol comprising my circle to create a sparkling, glittering show. Reds and greens and yellows and even blues surged into view, dancing around me and filling the room with every color imaginable. I watched with a smile. Nicolas had not told me the room concentrated ambient magic this much, and I thoroughly enjoyed the visual display of the energy I had felt since Nicolas gave a young boy an amulet of protection. Over a minute let the show fade before I turned to ask him my Age.
Only to find him staring at me with numb horror.
“Nicolas?”
No reply. He merely stared, and I could not reach him without entering the second circle. One outstretched hand conveyed the desire, however. Why did Father Christmas look seconds from a heart attack?
“Nicolas, answer me. What’s wrong?”
“You…” The word trailed away, and he swallowed. Bright blue eyes dulled beneath...why was he grieving? His mouth moved silently before quiet words barely reached my hearing. “You…don’t have an Age.”
“What?!”
That made no sense. Why would the room put on such a display if I would die before reaching the Age of Decision? Nicolas had never told me that the room celebrated such a loss.
“Watson!”
Holmes would have said the same if given a moment to think. Utter panic drenched the word, however, and glancing back found him desperately trying to reach me. The circle itself kept him out. Only one supplicant could enter at a time. I turned back to Nicolas.
“What would it have done if I had an Age?”
“The—circle would have lit up.” Forced words hit the air already heavy with loss. He had not expected me to not have an Age. “But only in a single color. The ambient magic would then give me a time duration to wait. We calculate the Age from there.”
Alright. That made sense but reinforced the celebratory feel of that display. “What about someone whose Age has already passed?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Probably nothing, but no one enters the first circle the day they transition.”
No reason to, that said. Why confirm the Age already discovered when they could go straight to transitioning? Silence answered him as an idea bloomed. Did I want to take the risk?
Holmes still stood behind me, stubborn composure the only thing that prevented him from beating against the invisible barrier of the ritual circle. Already, fear lined his face and shook his hands. The gaze focused solely on me announced the stifled panic he barely controlled. If I stepped backwards, he would grab me immediately and not let go until the next heart attack separated us.
Nicolas watched in silence, grief etching every inch of the face still chalk-white from the results of my petition. The magic of the room prevented him from reading my thoughts for the first time since we had met, but he clearly fought against the premature grief of my impending loss. Between that sorrow and his location, he would not be able to cross the room fast enough to interfere.
Which made this choice mine and mine alone—for a few more seconds. The room had dampened Nicolas’ magic, not bound it. If he worked hard enough, anything he could do in the hall he could also do in this room, and the slightest inkling of the path I debated would see him encase me in a bubble ‘for my own protection.’
And why not? He had already told me what had happened to the one person that had stumbled into the second circle before reaching his Age. Sudden and painless that death may have been, his loss had still been incredibly painful. I would never choose that.
But if I chose between possibly dying now or definitely dying later? My answer might change, because that display still looked like a celebration even in hindsight, and the born immortals that had made this entire process possible for a magicless human would not have celebrated when one could not transition. Prejudice against humans coming to live at the Pole would have simply let our magic die without recourse.
Which made my decision. Between a certainty of a painful death or a possibility of life, I would always choose life. A glance at Nicolas apologized for either the scare or the results before two steps forward crossed into the second circle.
“John, no!”
“WATSON!”
They both screamed, panic and fear and loss weighing every word, but the circle flared to keep even Nicolas from crossing the boundary. Light flickered around me in a rainbow of colors and sparked a comforting warmth in my chest. I barely noticed my cane clatter away as my knees hit the stone, and raised voices only joined the maelstrom of magic swirling around me. Ribbons of color flowed from the pillar to wave across the floor, dance over my skin, and expand that comforting warmth into a pulsing heat. From my chest, around my back, through my shoulders, and down both arms and legs, the warmth filled my entire body until my shoulder loosened and I managed my first deep breath in over a week. By the time the swirling magic faded to a slight glow above my skin, I felt better than I had in days.
“Watson!”
Though Nicolas’ expression said we would have a very long talk as soon as we left this room. Holmes continued screaming from his place against the wall as three long strides put Nicolas beside me. His gentle but firm grip easily lifted me to my feet, where decades of propriety went out the proverbial window as he wrapped me in the first hug he had bestowed since I was a child.
“I understand now what you mean by a heart attack.”
The remnants of fear made his normally strong voice hit the air much smaller than I would have expected. I returned the embrace rather than try to reply. He would not appreciate the informed decision—or its ramifications—until he no longer battled the terror I had induced. He squeezed tighter at my silence, but a slow count of five grudgingly pushed away to face me.
“How much did it heal?”
“Some.” A glance at my cane postponed the question, and apology appeared when Nicolas remembered Holmes impatiently waiting at the edge of the room. Muted magic still scooped up my cane though he supported me out of the ritual circles. Shaking hands grabbed my own the moment we came within reach.
“Watson.”
Breathed on a whisper of remembered panic, a tsunami of what-ifs cascaded through Holmes’ gaze as he first ensured us well away from the circle, then nearly glued himself to my side. I barely had time to register the atypical hug before he leaned back just enough to see my face. Taking my arm in his pointedly left his fingers on the pulse point.
“Why?”
“Because a chance at life is better than no chance at all.”
“You—” The question cut off behind a thousand deductions fighting their way past the lingering panic. “What did you induce?”
“That a person not having an Age might be the same as that person being past their Age.” A pause found only confusion. “Could you see the colors?”
He shook his head. “I saw you enter the circle and look around with a smile as Mr. Kringle paled.”
“Maybe you’ll see it when you enter?” A glance directed the question at Nicolas, but he still stared at me without registering the conversation. “Stepping into the circle activates the magic,” I continued with a half shrug. We would find out soon enough. “That explosion of color could not have been anything but a celebration, and a group of immortals who went through all this work to let humans transition would not celebrate one dying first. Nicolas said that no one had ever reentered the circle after reaching their Age.”
Heavy thought studied me even as he followed my logic. “So you chose between—” The words caught in his throat.
“Walking out of the room with a certainty of a painful death,” I bluntly finished for him, “or a roughly fifty-fifty split between a sudden, painless death and transitioning in that circle.”
The mention tightened his hold on my wrist yet again, but I simply waited for logic to win against persistent fear. Breath-taking, panic-inducing moments believing he watched me give up would not simply ease with physical contact and a few words, and long seconds passed before the slightest bit of tension drained from his shoulders. We would need to address this further, of course, but for now he would focus on banishing the terror of my transition.
And learning his own Age. Nearly a minute finally released my arm to glance a question at Nicolas, who shook himself back to the present and hurried to the other side of the room. Nicolas’ frequent glances kept me in sight and probably read my thoughts, but once he reached his place, Holmes entered the first circle and spoke his petition.
Magic lit the symbols from within yet again, this time shooting toward the ceiling in a bright column the exact shade of Holmes’ eyes. He watched quietly as if unable to see the light show, but Nicolas waited for the color to fade before answering our silent question.
“We’ll come back in twenty-two days.”
Holmes’ nod combined thanks and relief, but he resumed his place an inch from my side without a word. Only the fingers lightly brushing my arm prevented me from reacting. Considering the transition did not restore health, I knew better than to think he would stop hovering before he transitioned. Trying to lean on my cane put him on my other side, and he confirmed his grip when returning weariness stumbled over flat floor.
“Watson?”
“Just tired. Transitioning does not heal immediately, Holmes,” I continued at his frown. “I will never have another attack, but I will not reach last month’s normal for at least a few days.”
“Magic tends to hold humans at about age forty,” Nicolas added, “but getting there from your age is a gradual process. Be patient. Are you up for a late breakfast?”
Only if I did not have to walk very far, but we left the room before I could reword the initial thought. His attention snapped to me.
“Do you still need a chair?”
Knowledge bloomed as if sparked by the question, making me ignore the worry turning Holmes’ mouth yet again. The wave of information required only a moment to comprehend before surprise froze mid step. Meredith had complained just last year about the transition not granting any magical abilities, so why—
“Watson?”
Figure that out later, I decided. A faint smile eased his frown as I gently freed myself from Holmes’ grip.
“No.”
All my senses reached to the Pole’s thick ambient magic, and a wide smirk used the magic I gained being “immortal” to reappear directly behind Holmes. Nicolas failed to hide his surprise, but half a second let Holmes search before I announced myself with a quiet “boo.”
Nicolas’ hearty laughter echoed down the hall when Holmes visibly jumped.