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The Royal Academy of Magicians began admitting women two years before Jessamyn auditioned to join. It was still unusual, at that point in time, for a young lady of quality to choose to study magic, and the places reserved for women were limited in number, but her tutor (himself a graduate of that esteemed institution) told her that her skills were of a quality to be considered for the Academy proper.
“I shall help you prepare your audition,” he said, when Jessamyn protested that she was not ready. “You are ready, and you shall be accepted.”
He was correct, of course (for such is the role of tutors, to gently guide their pupils and ensure their success), and so it was that upon the occasion of her audition, she was one of the lucky few admitted to the Academy that year. The Academy, it should be noted, has always limited the size of its classes, and the year that Jessamyn was admitted, she was one of ten pupils in total: two women and eight men, for (as the mages that wagged their chins and discussed the finer points of magical theory, such as how many angels could dance upon the head of a pin, if first shrunk using Avino’s Principles of Transmogrification) all agreed the role of women in magic was not decided upon.
“Which is as it should be,” as one of Jessamyn’s new classmates – a man named Martin Flinders, who insisted upon being called Martin and never Marty, was quick to say. He was joined, of course, in a chorus of nods, by the other men who had been admitted to that esteemed cohort (most of whom will not be present in this narrative save to be named once, and so, in the interest of time, will not be named here). “You were clever once; let us see if the act may be repeated.”
Mr. Flinders, as it passed, was the great-great-great grandson of the esteemed Archmage to the King, Merlin Flinders, who had (before his passing, some years previous) been noted for his astounding work on the principles of flight. Indeed, in the textbook which all Royal Academy students were to study, there was included a treatise on flight (being part of the third year curriculum) penned by none other than Magister Flinders himself.
“Of course,” said Martin. “I scarcely have need of it – did you know, my father taught me everything I know.”
Martin’s father, naturally, was third in line to become Archmage himself, meaning: if something were to happen either to the Archmage, his understudy, or his understudy’s understudy, he would become the Archmage of all of the kingdom. That the Archmage’s understudy (and his understudy’s understudy) were both the very paragons of health and never engaged in something so dreadfully dangerous (or dreadfully exciting) as paragliding or rock-climbing or going out racing in motor-cars meant largely that Magister Flinders (Martin’s father, not Merlin) spent his days chiefly advising the Royal Academy on who should and should not be admitted on the basis of talent. He had been, it was noted, one of those who had said that it would be a shame if women were to be allowed to join, raising a hue and cry upon the idea that “some upstart hussy” should take the rightful place of his talented boy. Indeed, there were rumors (never proven, naturally, but when has that ever stopped a rumor from propagating?) that one of the concessions made for the acceptance of young ladies was that Mr. Flinders (Martin, not his father) was to be admitted to the Academy without an audition.
“Not that it would have mattered even if I hadn’t auditioned,” said Martin (who had heard these rumors, of course, and refuted them). “Consider my pedigree.”
All of this to say, of course, that Mr. Martin Flinders hated Jessamyn, and Jessamyn hated him, and the rivalry between them was quite entrenched indeed, fated almost from the start. Naturally, of course, this meant that many articles were written about the two of them in the school newspaper (students of magic being horrible gossips, for when you have magic at your fingertips, and may listen in to any conversation, why not put it to good use spying in your friends and neighbors and listening in to any and all conversations, whether or not they concern you or your business). If Jessamyn came first in theory, Martin would come first in the practical, and vice-versa. The two of them battled it out for the three years they were at the Academy, from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, fighting tooth and nail (and occasionally claw, depending on if they were shapeshifted that day) to determine who would emerge, victorious, and graduate as valedictorian.
Jessamyn, of course, worked desperately hard to ensure her place (wishing for valedictorian, and not salutatorian, for she at least feared for her career prospects should she not be top after all). The role of women as mages in different companies and enterprises across the kingdom was not assured, and she did so wish to guarantee that she would be offered a place – preferably with one of the top magic-houses or wardsmakers in the country, confiding in her only friend at the Academy, one Dustin Brushbill, regarding her desire to be first.
Mr. Brushbill, who was comfortably near the middle of the pack, and thus had no illusions about his future (taking over his father’s shop selling magical curiosities, the sort of cushy position to which many magicians could only hope to aspire) listened to her with gravity, nodding in the right places and providing encouragement when needed. “You’ll do fine no matter what, Jess,” he said (for he was the sole one allowed to call her Jess). “You know that if you’ve need of a place, there’s always the magic shop.” The curiosity shop, after all, would require an assistant, and being rather fond of Jessamyn (and having no doubt as to her talents), Mr. Brushbill had rather set his sights upon marrying her, if she would have him – a lofty goal, considering that they were all of seventeen, and she had displayed no tender feelings toward him to speak of, save those of friendship.
“I know I shall always have a place in the shop,” Jessamyn despaired (and it was despair, for the thought of being a shop assistant all her life, or until she married Dustin Brushbill, plummeted her to the very depths of that emotion). “But I want something better, Dustin – I wish to be important, and make contributions to the field!”
That she often spoke with such emphasis when discussing her future was something that only endeared her to Mr. Brushbill. “You would be important,” he said. “You could even have the running of the place” – not that his father would allow it, something they both knew, though he liked to daydream that perhaps Jess could run it, and he would simply be able to sit back and admire her as she did, letting her steer his life in rather a different direction than he had expected, having almost no ambitions of his own (despite his not-inconsiderable talent, for only the most talented are admitted to the Academy, after all, and even being middle of the pack meant he was still better at magic than almost anyone else in the kingdom).
“That is not what I mean by important and you know it.” She sighed heavily. “I want to write the sorts of treatises that men like Martin Flinders are allowed publish to without question – to talk about magical theory and discuss the finer points of it. I wish – I wish to go on learning, to be allowed to take the title of Magister” (for this was something that had yet to be achieved by any woman, and we must perhaps thus be gentle in our correction that it is Magistera; it is not as though any woman had achieved it, or not at that point in time). “I wish to be…important!”
Dustin Brushbill, bless his soul, listened to all of this, nodding at her and, when she became teary from the profundity of the emotion she felt, offering her his handkerchief, like the gentleman he was. “You will be,” he promised. He meant it, truly, for even if she never did come help him run the magic shop, he knew that she would be important to him.
“Only if I am valedictorian,” she said savagely. “I must take first – if I don’t, if I lose to that awful Martin Flinders, I haven’t any idea whatsoever what I shall do!”
Graduation drew ever closer, of course. Applications were made to various businesses and universities, and provisional acceptances granted. Jessamyn was extended two offers: one from the prestigious City College, the other from a smaller liberal arts school that had historically taught women (separate from men, though they had recently become co-ed). The City College made it clear in no uncertain terms that there was only one position open, and that while they were enchanted at the idea that Jessamyn would take it, it would ultimately go to whichever student achieved valedictorian status, be it her or Martin Flinders. The co-ed educational institute, located in the country and thus far from any posturing, offered her a full academic scholarship no matter what position she graduated in, assuming she did graduate. “It would be quite a feather in our cap to say that we trained you, and that upon your testing by the Archmage of the Kingdom, your skills were found to be adequate and so you were awarded the title of Magistera,” they wrote – though of course, being less competitive overall, Jessamyn did not want them.
“I will go to City College or I will not go at all,” she told Dustin Brushbill, who as usual listened and nodded in all the right places. He had no preference on where it was she was to attend. Either institution struck him as fine, and after all, what right did he have to dictate where it was she went? He was going to be a shop-keep, and while it was his hope to have her as his wife (and a very educated wife, at that – for imagine her as Magistera Brushbill!), he held no illusions about his own future and what awaited him at the curiosity shop.
“You’ll go wherever will take you, I imagine,” he said, and extended a handkerchief once more when her ranting about the unfairness that was Martin Flinders’ attitude became too much and she began to cry once more. “Probably the City College, though, since you’re in first.”
That she was, in fact, in first was not something that was lost upon any at the Academy. Most of those poor souls who had the misfortune of being in a class with her and Mr. Flinders had realized the futility of trying for valedictorian by the end of their first year, and so the competition had slowly peeled away until it was only herself and Mr. Flinders, separated by less of a tenth of a point at any given time. Jessamyn might pull ahead in the practical, while Martin Flinders would pull ahead in the theory, or vice-versa, both of them arguing with their instructors whenever points were taken away from them (or awarded to the other), trying to find some way to guarantee that they (and only they) would be granted the coveted role of valedictorian, for as the headmaster of the school had put it:
“The school has never had a tie for valedictorian, and never shall we.”
Finally, the day of the last exam that either Jessamyn or Martin Flinders would sit approached. The two of them were the only students in the special topics seminar taught that year – one on the history and theory of human flight, taught by an E. Hibben. Magister Hibben, it was known, was older than anyone else at the College, almost completely deaf, and yet one of the top experts in flight mechanics, having had the fortune of being taught by Merlin Flinders, that master of flight, himself. He gave the lectures (which were often long and wandering), and set the test questions, most of which were the sorts of fiendishly difficult mechanics problems that were known to arise in one’s oral examinations for the title of Magister. That he thought it completely appropriate to give these sorts of exams to Academy students (who were not yet at Magister level), and that no one thought it strange that he gave them to Jessamyn and Martin Flinders speaks, perhaps, of the level to which both of them had risen, and their respective skill in magic itself.
The day of the exam, both Jessamyn and Martin entered the room. Magister Hibben put the test booklets on the desk before them for the practical portion of the exam, then set a timer, counting down from one hour, at the end of which they would both be required to perform a practical examination.
Jessamyn set to the booklet with fury, scribbling away, dumping every little bit of information she could manage, writing everything she had ever learned about flight mechanics, while Martin Flinders took a rather more leisurely route, taking his time and checking his answers, perfectly aware that he (and not Jessamyn, surely) would take valedictorian. When the timer chimed, every page of her book was full, while Martin Flinders had only used half the available pages, the other half being (as he crowed later, in the corridors) unnecessary.
The practical portion of the examination was conducted separately, both parties being made to levitate Magister Hibben precisely three feet off the ground, which both Jessamyn and Martin Flinders performed with exactitude. This part over, he thus set to grading their books while both of them watched, smiling at correct answers and shaking his head slowly at those that did not quite meet his muster.
Finally, the booklets graded, Magister Hibben set both of them aside, drawing a deep breath before saying: “I suppose this is the last examination either of you shall take?”
“Yes,” said Martin Flinders, before Jessamyn could speak. “That is to say –”
“ – we are perfectly tied for valedictorian,” said Jessamyn, who could not stand to let her worse rival have the last word. “Whomever scores highest on this exam shall be first, with the other two be second.”
Magister Hibben nodded solemnly, considering this. “Then we have a problem,” he said, the creases about his eyes deepening (eyes themselves nearly lost in the wrinkles that surrounded them). “For you have both scored exactly the same. You did not make the same errors – Jessamyn, there was a miscalculation in the velocity of flight, while Martin, you have incorrectly identified the amount of force required to lift a body in the face of direct and sustained wind – but both of you have lost one point all the same. Something must be done.”
“A tie-breaker,” said Martin Flinders. “Ask us another question, Magister!”
Jessamyn frowned, but it was not as though she could say no – for she knew as well as Martin did what the headmaster’s approach would be (to flip a coin, like as not, and whomever called it correctly – neither of them being skilled at divination – to be the one to take the position). “Another question about theory,” she said. “Or else ask for a practical demonstration, or – or something else.”
Magister Hibben considered this carefully. “Do you know,” he said at last. “To be an excellent magician is not only to be skilled in theory and practice, but also to know your fellows. I will put a question before you, and whichever one of you answers it correctly will be given the point. Merlin Flinders was well-known for his love of tea. The man canceled everything for high tea at four o’clock sharp, it is known, including once making the King wait for him to finish his cup before he set to work addressing a dangerous hurricane threatening the kingdom. I will ask you this, then, and whomever can tell me the correct answer will be the one to take the point: how did Magister Flinders take his tea?”
Jessamyn listened to this, horrified, for the answer was of course not found in any book (not being the sort of thing reported upon in those esteemed annals of magical theory), nor in any biography she had ever read of the esteemed Master Flinders (hoping to gain some understanding of his loathsome progeny). She considered the lectures that Magister Hibben had given, trying to determine what the most likely answer was, but –
“A splash of heavy cream and half a lump of sugar, stirred counterclockwise exactly three times, allowed to cool no more than four minutes before sipping,” said Martin Flinders, with the sort of devil-may-care attitude that let her know, immediately, that it was correct and that she had been beaten.
“Congratulations, Mr. Flinders,” said Magister Hibben. “Well-earned.”
At graduation, in giving his speech, Martin Flinders was, it was noted, not a gracious winner. Rather, he spend the entirety of the speech discussing the question of whether women should be admitted to the Academy at all – “for Jessamyn has failed in that duty of femininity: hospitality. An excellent mage she may be, but as a wife and a helpmeet, I pity the man who wishes to wed her.” He condescended to her regarding what “small skill” she showed, leaving her chewing the inside of her cheek so as not to curse him, insulting her at every turn and ensuring that she “knew her place”, as he put it to anyone who would listen, later. That the speech was well-received (for Jessamyn had made few friends during her rise to the top, and Martin Flinders, while not well-liked himself, had the sort of name and pedigree to which most social climbers would attach themselves) was only salt in the wound, insult to injury.
Jessamyn made it through the graduation ceremony without cursing Martin Flinders. After it was ended, their caps and gowns removed, she went so far as to shake his hand – for, despite the fact that he had been an ass in the speech, she did recognize the importance of showing a good attitude, and recognizing when she had been beaten.
“I suppose the position at the City College is yours,” she said. “I do wish you luck.”
“I shan’t need it,” Martin Flinders said – for never was he one to turn down an opportunity to condescend to her regarding her lack of natural talent, being (as he said) the deficit of her sex. “But I will wish you luck at – what school was it, again? One I’ve never heard of, to be sure – are they able to confer the rank of Magistera?”
She withdrew her hand, resolving never to speak to him again, and indeed did not talk to him for the remainder of the graduation ceremony, including the dinner afterward, where he was seated at the head of the table and she at his right hand, both of them honored guests. The student newspaper reported afterward at that if looks could kill, Martin Flinders would have been dead at least four times over, but never a word did she speak to him.
Jessamyn might have said that she would not go to that esteemed liberal arts college, that she would go to the City College or nowhere at all, but her tutor (with whom she was still close, and had in fact stayed in contact) talked sense into her.
“If you wish to be Magistera, it matters little where you earn the degree, for you will be one of the first women to do so, and your name will be one spoken in the most esteemed circles,” he said. “Go there, enjoy the support they will provide you, and prove to any and all that you did not need the City College to reach your full potential.”
So it was that she did go, after all, and finding the academic environment no less rigorous (but with more women), she continued her work, competing for valedictorian (and earning it, by a wider margin – but that is not to say one that was wide). She kept in touch with Mr. Brushbill, naturally, who had written to her at least ten letters by the time she arrived, all demanding to know what she had done with her summer (moped, mostly), if she thought of him (often, mostly missing his company, for he had always been very good at talking her out of her black moods), and whether or not she would be willing to let him come and visit (yes, naturally, though he would have to find a hotel). When she completed her dissertation defense and was awarded the title of Magistera, Mr. Brushbill was there, naturally, and, after a suitable period of time had passed (wishing to celebrate her and her achievements), made his suit to her, offering her the heirloom ring that had been his great-grandmother’s, and asking her to do him the honor of becoming Mrs. Jessamyn Brushbill.
“Which I accepted, of course,” she told her tutor, over tea. “For I am fond of him, and who else would have me, after all?”
“Many,” her tutor said, wisely. “Though few perhaps who understand that your first love is magic, and not them.”
Dustin Brushbill, for all his faults, did at least understand that she was dedicated to magic first, and to his constant companionship and friendship second, and did not expect her to become a housewife, only to continue down the path she had already started – a powerful thing indeed. “I am fond of him,” she repeated. “And I will marry him.”
So it was that she did, choosing to move with him back to the city, where it was announced (very shortly thereafter) that the Archmage of the kingdom had decided it was time to retire, and his understudy (and his understudy’s understudy) with him, and that there would be a new audition held, for whomever was to become next Archmage of the kingdom.
“A position which has never been held by a woman, and so I hold no illusions regarding my chances of success – let alone of being invited to audition,” Jessamyn said to Dustin, over their morning tea the day the news was announced. “I shall find a position eventually.”
She had, in fact, been offered an interview at the Academy – for the leadership there had changed, and they were now in the habit of admitting an equal class of men and women, and had a need of those with the rank of Magistera to teach those incoming students.
“Whatever you think best, my dear,” Dustin said – for he was, after all, very patient.
Just as they were finishing their breakfast, there came a knock at the door – one that Dustin answered (for he recognized his role in the household, even if Jessamyn did not, or not always), returning to the table with an envelope and a strange look upon his face.
“What is it?” she asked him, seeing his expression. “You look as though you’ve just been given the strangest news of your life.”
“A letter,” he said. “For you, hand-delivered by – well, the Archmage’s assistant. Look at the seal, Jess.”
She peered at it, frowning at the wax blot – for it was sealed, naturally, by the Archmage’s personal seal. “It can’t be.”
“It might be,” he said wisely. “You ought to open it. Sit down first, of course” – for she had risen from her chair to take it from him.
Jessamyn sat, accepting the envelope, and slit it open with a fingertip. Inside was an invitation – one to audition before the Archmage for a two-year apprenticeship, to result in her being named Archmage of the kingdom if successful.
“Darling,” she said, reading this. “Am I dreaming?”
Dustin took the letter from her, reading it carefully. “No,” he said. “It says – tomorrow?”
“There are only ten in the entire kingdom who will have been invited,” she said, dazed. “I – oh, gods, I haven’t anything to wear! I haven’t anything prepared – I’ve never –”
“To the tailor’s, then,” Dustin said – for he was, of course, supportive to a fault. “And then I suppose you ought to review what it was you were hoping to use for your interview to the Academy; it’s sufficiently elegant.”
“Sufficiently elegant, of course, but I can’t imagine it shows my full range of skills,” she said. “But I suppose I haven’t a hope of getting it – surely I’ve been invited as a…a – diversity pick.” For, after all, that or something close to it was what Martin Flinders had said all those years ago, and the words had taken deep root, something she never was quite able to tear out from her soul.
“Dash it all,” said Dustin. “The Archmage and his ilk wouldn’t know ‘diversity’ if it bit them on the nose – you’ve been recommended, for someone has seen your talents, and it’s an honor to be invited. You’ll go, darling, and if you don’t get it, the Academy will snap you up for that teaching position you coveted, for you are one of the first Magistera, and with an audition invitation from the Archmage himself, they know you have sufficient talent.”
Jessamyn laughed, hearing this, for it was rare that her husband used such strong language, but kissed him on the cheek and agreed that they would go, together, to the tailor. “I cannot let the condescension of a boy who hardly knew me ruin my chance at something truly great, after all,” she admitted. “Yes, of course, you’ve the right of it.”
With steady hands, she penned a response back accepting the invitation and stating that she would present herself at ten o’clock, just as the Archmage requested.
It is at this point that the question of Mr. Martin Flinders should be revisited – namely, whatever became of him. Mr. Flinders did go on to City College, where (it should be noted), he did not do half so well as Jessamyn, placing not first nor second in his graduating class, but firmly in the middle of the pack, his theoretical work being sound, but his practical demonstrations somewhat uncertain. Indeed, it was during the middle of his junior year that a pervasive rumor began to dog him: namely, that he was not half the talent he claimed to be (being very academically intelligent, but lacking in practical talent), and had in fact made some sort of pact or else an agreement with some eldritch entity who provided him with what oomph he had needed in his Academy days. The City College, naturally, was warded against these sorts of minor fiends, wishing to graduate only those that showed true talent, and so it was that Mr. Flinders did graduate, but of middling standing after abysmal practical demonstrations, having earned himself (perhaps unfairly) the nickname, “The Con”.
Naturally, Mr. Flinders – whose ancestor was the remarkable Merlin Flinders – did net himself an invitation to perform before the Archmage, though it was less out of recognition for his skill and more out of acceptance that his family (who had several seats in Parliament) had perhaps more political sway than it would do to upset, and so an invitation should be extended to “The Con” simply to prevent them from raising a fuss or beginning some sort of tiresome investigation into the Archmage’s office.
Of course, Jessamyn (who had kept her head down and earned her title of Magistera, as well as the valedictorian position at her school) was invited on the recommendation of several of her instructors, as well as the strength of her own schoolwork (which, of course, was reviewed in the process of determining who was to be invited). Her college, after all, while not one that was well-regarded in the way the City College was, was nevertheless recognized as a premiere academic institution by those familiar with its curriculum and staff, and so her invitation (unlike that of Mr. Flinders) was genuine, the request for her to audition sincere.
Not that Jessamyn knew this, of course. Dustin (who had heard the rumors about “The Con”) had not seen fit to tell her, for the way her cheeks flushed with anger whenever Martin Flinders was mentioned was enough to tell that wise man that he ought to keep rather quiet about the subject, especially in light of the fact that there was no evidence that he had made any sort of agreement with any minor fiend.
So it was that the morning of the audition, Jessamyn (now outfitted in a smart jacket and skirt) walked into the hall where the audition was to be held, to be greeted by none other than her former rival, Martin Flinders, who sneered at her from across the room as she walked in.
“I take it that the nod to women’s suffrage has arrived,” he said, to whomever would listen. “I did not realize that the Archmage was willing to entertain second-best – but I suppose the understudy must need an understudy, always.”
Most that sat near him ignored his remarks, of course, though Jessamyn (who could not help but hear them, as they were aimed at her) could not help but bristle. Time had healed some of those wounds, and the memory of the graduation dinner was a distant one, but to see Martin Flinders in the flesh at what was meant to be the triumph of her adult life was rather disheartening, to say the least. Nevertheless, she took her seat (down the row from him, thankfully), waiting for the Archmage to take the stage and introduce those judges who would be determining which audition was most successful.
“Whomever succeeds here today shall undergo apprenticeship with me,” he said. “They will become my chief apprentice, with the understanding that they shall take my position upon my retirement. To simply have been asked is an honor, and each and every one of you has been brought here with the understanding that you are singular magical talents whose gifts will serve the kingdom, whether you are selected as Archmage or not.”
Privately, of course, he noted Martin Flinders, and excluded him from those remarks (for Flinders was, naturally, a mediocre talent at best, having peaked in his teenage years), but naturally he could not say so without upsetting the apple cart, and so he wisely did not.
One by one, each of them was called to the stage to give their audition. Jessamyn was rather relieved to be among the first set, for (as she put it to Dustin, who had accompanied her) it was easier to be among the first and have no idea what to expect, than to watch everyone else and worry how her audition paled in comparison. What she did not and could not have known is that only those first three (of which she was one) were considered the most likely to be chosen, with the others being potential candidates with less promise, and Martin Flinders (at the very end) having been rejected out of hand due to poor academic record (though asked to audition for political reasons, as stated).
She watched as each of the hopefuls went forward, her hands wet, until finally it came time for Martin Flinders to take to the stage. He did, of course, and knowing his own limitations (and that he was unlikely to be chosen), took to the stage and first made a point of heckling Jessamyn again.
“If nothing else,” he said to the audience. “I shall outperform her, for who could not? Her attempt was rather endearing” (her set of spells had, in fact, been incredibly difficult, and showed a great deal of mastery and skill in performing, something that he recognized) “but we must make allowances for our lessers, I suppose.”
“Your audition only, please, Mr. Flinders,” said the Archmage – who was perhaps the only one in that audience who felt comfortable interrupting him.
Martin Flinders began his audition, of course, which was (it was noted by those in the audience who had known him at the City College) rather more impressive than anything he had done in his tenure there. Indeed, one of the judges (who was an instructor at that esteemed place) was heard by the Archmage to remark to their seatmate: “Perhaps there’s nothing to that old rumor about ‘The Con’ after all!”
The Archmage, hearing this, knew that there would be trouble ahead if he allowed Mr. Flinders to continue and did not name him his successor. Frowning, he watched the audition, waiting for the pivotal moment, during which point he would of course cast some ward that would prevent the interference of any fiend (suspected but not proven) with the audition.
He did not have to wait long. Mr. Flinder’s audition chiefly consisted of rather basic magical demonstration: illusion, enchantment, and so on and so forth, until the end, at which point he cast a spell which was designed to show all those gathered what it was that his illustrious ancestor, Merlin Flinders, had been capable of: flight, to such a degree as was nigh-impossible to achieve by most practitioners. This itself, if unaided, might have been enough to guarantee him a place as the Archmage’s apprentice after all, such was the degree of difficulty in the casting, and so it was during this portion that the Archmage acted.
Without rising from his seat, he waved a hand, casting the ward that would prevent any fiend (or other extraplanar being) from entering or so much as observing the room. He did this as he cast another spell in tandem: one that would catch Mr. Flinders in midair and lower him gently as his spell failed. This second one proved prudent, for Mr. Flinders, hovering a good ten feet in the air, might have otherwise bellyflopped onto the stage below. As it was, he waved his arms rather dramatically in his panic, for he could feel as the spell failed, his own power not nearly enough to keep him aloft.
Lowered to the stage, he was thus embarrassed and run off, and the Archmage, rising, gave a nod to all those gathered.
“I believe we have seen enough,” he said. “The results of the audition will be published in tomorrow’s paper.”
Jessamyn, who could not quite believe her luck, squeezed Dustin’s hand, and the two of them went home together.
The next morning, it was announced in the papers that Jessamyn Brushbill was to be the next Archmage of the kingdom, with her understudy having been picked from among those that auditioned (the mage who went after her, to be specific), and the understudy’s understudy also picked from among that storied lot. Of course, this was not the headline that was most discussed in the magical community, for while it was recognized that Jessamyn herself had done well (her audition being one that was quite solid, and such a pity for the Academy that she had not gone on to become an instructor there after all), there was a second piece of news, also on the front page, that caught everyone’s eye – that of the fate of Martin Flinders, whose ignoble fall from grace had been captured by a photograph present to document the event.
“After all,” said Dustin, as he kissed his wife’s cheek, congratulating her on a well-deserved win. “It’s not every day that one sees a condescending con, descending.”