ALBION 1944

 

The summons came in with the rest of the mail. Fifteen-year-old Ruse glared at the envelope. Its contents left her expressionless. She filled out the exemption forms and sent them weeks ago. There were no good reasons for her to test at the Potions School in person. Yet, here indeed lay the letter insisting she appears after school to touch the magical oaken staff to prove her aptitude for that vocation.

Ruse sighed and crushed the notice in her hand. The paper crackled as it crumpled in her fist. With a heave worthy of a baseball pitcher, she flexed her arm, and the wad of paper flew down the path before going back inside.

A mild pounding started in her cranium and pulsed with every breath. She knew the paper wad sat on the ground outside, unvanquished.

Ruse took a savage bite out of her toast.

“This will make me late for work,” she informed her mother as they sat in the kitchen. The white long-sleeved school uniform blouse found its way into the butter. She sighed and rolled her eyes at the ceiling in a gesture that didn’t have anything to do with butter. Cheated out of her bid to opt out of Potions testing, the pounding in her head foretold an anxiety-filled and inevitable result of said testing. “I’ll have to find a paper bird kiosk and send a paper bird telling work I’ll be late,” she moaned. Tempted to simply not show up, she remembered Fa would be there.

“It’s not that big a deal.” Posy didn’t pretend to stop reading her newspaper and shook it straight.

Posy and Ruse enjoyed the newspaper in the morning. For Ruse, the scent of ink on paper and its crinkle against her fingers as she flipped the pages gave her a cozy moment to herself.

“The nearest kiosk is five minutes down the road. You’ll make it in plenty of time,” assured Posy. She had changed little since Ruse’s ordeal eight years ago, other than wearing Ierne perfume. Ruse found it distasteful and cloying. A superlative unpleasantness to a repugnant degree.

Ruse gritted her teeth a moment but kept her lips sealed shut. “Why do you not have mind-reading skills?” If sarcasm were liquid, Ruse could have poured herself a glass of it for breakfast.

She spread out the fingers of one of her hands, stiff and straight. “I don’t understand how someone who raised me could so thoroughly misunderstand me.” She assembled a quick breakfast and slipped on her saddle shoes. They were extremely popular shoes for teens, and they were as conformable as house shoes. Designed with a plain toe and a saddle-shaped middle placed mid-foot, the heel made her an inch taller, something diminutive Ruse was okay with. She loosened the economic fabric of her necktie. No one needed to wear a tight necktie. She turned to go out the door and grabbed her waffle-and-sausage sandwich on the way out.

She paused as she observed Posy take a tiny set of tongs and dip a sugar cube in her coffee. She left the cube on an open saucer. Once coffee became widely available through the trade routes, Posy converted to coffee. The syrupy feeling in the mouth and the energy boost that resulted brought several tea drinkers to the other side. Tea companies begrudgingly relinquished their title of hot beverage monarchs. They were hardly hurting for business, though.

“Do you need a coin for the bird?” Posy still didn’t look up from her paper.

“What, you think I’m destitute or something?” Ruse asked with yet another substantial sigh. She picked up the edges of the sugar cube, popped it into her mouth, and let the sweetness of the sugar and the bitterness of the coffee melt on her tongue as she ran out the door. Coffee sugar wasn’t something Ruse’s mother offered every day.

As Ruse began to close the door, Posy called out, “Pick up that wad of paper before you go.”

Ruse silently imitated her mother’s words.

Before the door completely closed, without looking up from her paper, Posy called, “I saw that.”

It occurred to Ruse the day would be too warm for long sleeves. Discreetly, she pushed a finger into her armpit and sniffed it. Most women used perfume to stay fresh, but Ruse went for deodorant when she remembered to use it. It didn’t stink like perfume. Sometimes, perfume wasn’t always strong enough to cover up the body odor, even when applied too much. Strong perfume gave Ruse a pounding headache. But so did the prospect of touching magical items.

Paper bird kiosks were a wonder of modern magic. Diogenes invented them. One simply took a square of paper available at the counter and wrote a note or, in Ruse’s case, had one written by someone else. The kiosk worker folded the paper into a bird-type shape, and the bird flew to its destination. Paper birds were quicker than letters, cheaper than mirrors, and almost unerring in reaching their target. On inclement days, a bird could be coated in wax after the message got prepped, written, and folded. Life and communication changed for the better with the introduction of paper birds. However, paper bird paper came out of the box mildly magical; if Ruse touched the paper, she would de-magic it.

The person operating the kiosk that morning turned out to be a hunter with long black hair pulled into a braid. Everyone knew he made a side-living, tracking down and killing large predatory cats. He cheerfully jotted down Ruse’s message and sent the bird on its way. “Should get there in an hour or so.” He took the coin off the countertop where she’d lain it.

Ruse pivoted and took a step on her way. The near collision as another customer approached caused her to take a little hop to the side, her fight or flight instinct kicking in.

“Oops, so sorry, liebchen!” The other customer still stood too close. He tipped his hat and gave a little bow. It turned out to be Pieter, the not-very-tall refugee from Germania. With a name like Pieter, one would have assumed him an old man. Pieter maintained himself to be twenty-eight.

Ruse had heard a year ago Pieter arrived with his sister, Gretchen, with only the clothes on their backs. They fled the war when the government army they lived under declared their village an army base. All civilians were expected to support the war effort.

Pieter was always polite and often commented something kind to the person he spoke to. He presented as downright obsequious. The newspapers said he currently petitioned for other Germanian refugees to find permanent status in the town.

Ruse put on a shiny smile and wished him a good okay, inadvertently dropping her sandwich. The two waffles and breakfast meat hit the dirt and scattered from each other. The near-contact anxiety left her with a pounding heart. Close calls were always too close. She shuddered over the minor disaster that came to one who wouldn’t understand. Pieter either did not know Ruse’s power or didn’t think it of consequence.

She still felt hungry.

Ruse found herself good at studying, poor at homework, and hopeless at team sports. There remained not a single academic subject she didn’t do well in; the art history curriculum came too easy, perhaps. School would have been perfect if not for classmate and bully Irina. Or perhaps school life would have been perfect for Irina if not for Ruse.

Ruse stood in the school yard, waiting for Fa.

Pale with blonde hair, Irina was a girl of above-average looks, average height, average school marks, and clear ambitions. Loud rumor had it she wanted to make it into Potions school and, for some reason, viewed Ruse as a rival for a position there. When class wasn’t in session, she entertained a small entourage of two or three girls at all times. With her entourage around, she marched around bravely. When none of her entourage was present to support her, she found less aggressive ways to insult someone.

“Did you get a summons, too?” Irina smirked.

Ruse’s order of attendance still crumpled into a ball in her pocket, made its way out into the world. Uncrumpled and smoothed out, it crackled as Irina rolled her eyes and muttered about noisy people taking up too much space. She snatched it off the table and pretended to read it upside down. She laughed and dropped it on the floor. Ruse bent over to pick it up.

“You? Of all people…. They’ll let anyone in these days, won’t they?” Her eyes narrowed. “You know you don’t belong, even if you get in, don’t you? Potions school is for magical only.”

“Who wants to go to Potions school, anyway?” Ruse countered. The waves of pain in her head, previously forgotten in the course of the day, sat on the edge of her awareness again.

“Only the right kind of person. The chosen.”

“I tried to get an exemption,” Ruse mumbled. She started explaining the paperwork she filled out twice. It didn’t occur to Ruse until later that she wasn’t obligated to explain anything to Irina.

“What? Failed at that? How surprising.” Irina scoffed. Exarp, Irina’s rabbit familiar, ran once around Ruse, winked, and settled down near his human.

Ruse clenched her fists. Even at only four feet eleven inches tall, she still wasn’t someone Irina wanted to tangle with physically. Her physical touch would seal off Irina’s power for a time, making life unpleasant.

Ruse glanced at Exarp. “How come such a handsome rabbit got stuck with you?”

A wind suddenly picked up. The other students ducked and backed away. The wind whipped everywhere around Ruse but did not touch her directly. She stood immovable. Nothing about the wind scared her. It must have frustrated Irina, whose wind talent other students feared.

“What are the rules about using your powers in school?” Instructor Maureen asked. Red-haired and plump, she was very much present among her students, so her arrival in this moment wasn’t unexpected. She held a wooden ruler and smacked it into the palm of her other hand.

“Don’t use your powers in school,” everyone chorused meekly.

“And familiars?” she demanded.

“No familiars in school,” they chorused. “Except at lunch.”

“Rightly so,” she finished.

When Ruse first began primary school, her tests found her to be consistently proficient in everything she tried, so they stuck her in Arts and English. It befuddled everyone. Her teacher recommended a curriculum rich in drawing, painting, art history, and literature.

Posy decided Ruse would have more than that and tutored her daughter in critical thinking, math, and the sciences to supplement the curriculum in school. “If you play baseball, and you’re good at hitting the ball but not so good at throwing it, it makes sense to practice throwing the ball more,” she’d explained when she started waking Ruse early in the morning to teach her at home.

Exarp took himself outside to stay with the other familiars in the familiar shelter next to the school.

Instructor Maureen scolded Irina, “As head girl, your behavior is that of a brat. Now stop picking fights, and get to class.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Irina agreed, all sweetness and light. She glared at Ruse as she walked past her.

A second too late, Ruse glared back.

She dearly wished she shared classes with Fa and Hana, but they both tested strongly in citizenship and democracy. They could all meet at lunch, though.

The lunchroom consisted of several small tables made of wood scattered throughout the room. Windows provided most of the lighting. On rainy or overcast days, the staff brought lamps in amidst tired jokes of it being a good thing no one bonded to a moth familiar.

There weren’t enough tables to hold every student at once, so lunch had to be taken in shifts. Luckily, Ruse’s shift included Fa and Hana.

“Irina tried to use her wind power on you?” Fa laughed so hard that tea came out of her nose. “You’d think she’d know better.”

“I made a comment about Exarp. She wishes she had a wolf or even a dog familiar.” Ruse played with her raw carrots. “I mean, it’s not like her familiar is a frog and always has to be carried.”

Fa shook her head. “It’s got to be hard for anyone to be Irina’s familiar. It’s not like she listens to anyone.”

The headache died down but not out. Ruse could have gone to the nurse and asked for a painkiller, but it wasn’t that kind of headache. It was the kind of headache brought on by distress and ill-anticipation. The kind of headache that originated from an external source, thanks to someone’s mess-up at Potions school. She touched her temple with her finger and tapped. She willed the pain to go away. It didn’t.

“Well, we can all agree she passes wind well.” Hana shook her head solemnly before starting in on her lunch. Her comment elicited laughter from the other two.

Hana came into her ability to summon flowers at age four. Her familiar, Opna, the oversized bee, was nearly swatted when her mother found it loitering around her daughter. Hana met Ruse in early grade school. She’d taken Ruse’s talent in stride.

“Nothing wrong with a good familiar,” Fa added as Orfiel gave a quack of agreement. Fa, born with her power, acquired Orfiel before she turned a month old. The duck showed up at the door and quacked until her parents let it in.

As babies, Ruse and Fa were put in the same crib when they slept, were fed on the same bottle schedule, and spent so much time together that Ruse became fussy away from Fa. Ruse’s talent became apparent quickly to the adults. At first, the families attempted to separate Fa and Ruse so Fa wouldn’t cry so much. They learned that infant Fa cried more when infant Ruse wasn’t nearby.

Hana changed the subject. “Hey, how many nonmagicals are in your class, Ruse?”

“Three, I think.” Ruse passed Fa—who’d forgotten her lunch again—a spare sandwich. “They’re not the most social, but they are nice enough if you run into them.”

A fellow student ambled up to Fa, one of the nonmagicals. He stood with an unattractive slouch and held two paper birds. When he initially tried to speak, he stammered. “D-Do you know the answers to the test scheduled for tomorrow?”

“What curriculum?” Fa asked. The vein on her forehead pulsed.

“Art history.” He missed the pulsing vein.

“Um, let me think.” Fa smiled sweetly, then shouted, “No!”

The other students in the cafeteria stopped talking and turned to watch the minor drama.

Fa stood quickly and gripped the edge of the table. Her knitted brows and downturned mouth told their classmate everything. “Even if I did, that’s cheating!”

“Thanks, Miss Depression.” He turned to leave.

“What’s wrong with depression?” Ruse picked up her sandwich as if to lob it at him.

Fa sat back down.

“Nothing, I guess.” The boy crushed one paper bird and threw it on the table. He asked for the location of a nearby kiosk to send the other paper bird.

Ruse and Hana flipped him off as he wandered away.

Hana took a sip from her Thermos. “I imagine it must be shitty to not have a magic talent.”

“Try having an antimagical one.” Ruse sighed. “Nonmagicals can at least participate in magic. They’re also the ones who invent things like chicken wire and pasteurization. This morning, I read a nonmagical named Ignaz Semmelweis advocated for handwashing in healing facilities years ago, especially maternity wards. For every eleven mothers counted after delivery, one more survived than expected. And for his ‘crazy’ idea, they put him in an asylum, and he died of sepsis after he got beaten by the guards.”

“Showoff,” Hana said.

“Mama’s tutoring.” Ruse smiled modestly.

“What’s the bird say?” asked Hana.

“Don’t know.” Ruse, for the second time that day, picked up a wadded piece of paper and smoothed it out. “It says, ‘Fa is not a bitch.’ Which means the one he sent probably says Fa is.” She hugged Fa. “We know you’re not. If you want, I can get close and kick him in the ankles.”

Fa shrugged. “No worries. I get those requests. I don’t get them often, but I get them often enough.”

“Did you two get a summons to go to Potions school today?” Ruse asked. The pounding inched up into her awareness again. Maybe if Fa and Hana didn’t get a summons, they could all skip together.

“Yeah.” Fa shrugged again.

Hana grinned. “Ex-emp-tion.”

Ruse’s jaw dropped. “How? I hand-penned my exemption application twice and sent it right from the post office.” With a loathing sense of futility, Ruse had filled out the second set of forms with her ballpoint pen. She finished and smelled the ink on the piece of paper. Although its scent was as pervasive as newsprint, she found it lacked the friendly familiarity of the twice-daily paper. The cream-colored paper, beautiful, smooth, and easy to write on, embraced her pen. She admired the smooth texture before tossing it in an envelope and mailing it out.

“I don’t know. I heard there’s some new employee. Maybe there’s been a filing mishap.”

“Twice?”

The lunch bell rang. The familiars returned to the familiar shelter. The students picked up and headed for the exits.

Fa bent over to Ruse. “Tell your mum she makes a good meatloaf sandwich.”

“I made the meatloaf,” Ruse corrected.

“Well, in that case, it didn’t have enough bread crumbs, and it needed more salt,” Fa teased as they walked back to their respective classrooms. Fa reached out and touched Ruse’s arm briefly before they parted.

Ordinarily, after the final bell rang and the students collected their books and familiars, Ruse would go to her job and spend a few hours there. Today, she and Fa were on their way to Potions school, a trade school that taught the art of Potions to anyone with a tolerance for tedium and an aptitude for preciseness.

Potion work was seen as an honorable profession, where the best and brightest found work in hospitals or as staff for celebrities. Most graduates, however, made tonics, cordials, and pills for chemist shops, which, if still honorable, certainly lacked glamour. Therein lay the crux of the issue: Potions school lacked a synonymous relationship with “glamorous.” Not enough to attract many new practitioners, anyway. The school petitioned the Council to make it necessary to test for aptitude, so if one showed aptitude, they’d be obligated to enroll. The Council agreed, with the stipulation, that someone could opt out for medical reasons or do two years of community service instead.

The Potions school resided in a small, old, converted Medieval-style castle at the opposite edge of town. It overlooked the second town square, partly blocking the sun. The town itself formed only a handful of decades ago, springing up around the old castle built long before.

Ruse and Fa, strangers to the second town square, did not quite believe the castle housed the entirety of Potions school. An entire school located in as old a structure as the castle? When Irina and her friends walked through the oak door carved in the front, they followed.

A woman barely older than themselves met them in the foyer. She introduced herself as Ticia. She sported dishwater brown hair and obvious pregnancy. She held a clipboard and checked off names as people arrived.

“Ruse.” She smiled politely. “What an interesting name. Where does it come from?”

Ruse discovered the spot of butter on her sleeve, a slight greasiness from her elbow on her fingertips. Since she usually sat during class leaning one elbow on her desk with her fist pressed against her cheek, chances were good there were grease stains on all of her assignments. With no time to clean up at the moment, she twisted briefly at her waist, brought her buttery fingers up to her nose, and took a sneaky sniff. “Oh, well, I heard my destined name was to be Rose, but my mama, too hopped up on painkillers, didn’t fill out my birth certificate right. Also, it’s pronounced like Lucy.” The ache in her head blossomed into a storm. A sweet and peppery scent and something like licorice filled the air, which seemed cooler than expected. Various herbs in pots lined the perimeter of the room.

“Oh, I see.” Ticia gave an uncomfortable smile. “Out of curiosity, why are you antimagical and not anti-magical?”

“Antimagical is a person. Anti-magical is a thing,” Ruse answered.

Ticia nodded and moved on to the next student, who happened to be Fa. “Where does your name come from?” she asked politely.

Fa replied, “Because my mother is Mi.”

Again, Ticia’s confusion came forth.

“And my grandmother is Re,” Fa continued. “My great-grandmother is Do.”

Ruse stared down at the floor for a moment. Ticia’s perplexed expression only grew. Finally, Ruse heard Ticia make some scribbles on her clipboard. Ticia pasted on a smile and went to the next person.

Fa moved closer to Ruse. “You’ll figure it out when the revelation hits you at three a.m.,” she called to Ticia.

Trent, the boy who’d held Ruse’s hand so many years ago after finding her injured in the woods, had a part-time position at the Potions School. He sat at a table nearby organizing papers. He waved without changing his posture when Ruse yelled hello.

Now twenty, Trent had grown tall but remained thin. While not known to be cheerful, he said a polite good morning to everyone he came across. He worked a part-time position at the hospital, too. He’d been assigned to clean up and restock the exam rooms and surgical theaters after procedures. Even if not thrilled with his work, he became efficient and got the job done. And he was never known to complain.

Irina practically sat beside herself with elation. “I’m going to be an apothecary healer,” she announced to her entourage as if she hadn’t informed everyone several times already. “I come from a long line of apothecary healers.”

Her entourage bobbed their heads in agreement as though their noggins were on springs.

“I thought your parents were hog farmers.” Ruse scratched her left temple. Maybe her parents were, and maybe they weren’t. Hog farmers and apothecary healing were both honest jobs, and Ruse didn’t differentiate honest work.

The entourage giggled.

Irina flushed. “At least I’m not a fatherless curse on society,” she spat. “A bastard nothing who can’t even qualify as a magical.”

Ruse’s eyes narrowed.

Irina backed away hastily. “You think you’re so special, but the only reason anyone tolerates you is because Mr. Diogenes likes you, for some reason.”

“Hey!” Fa shouted from off to the side.

“Shut it, Little Miss Doldrums.” Irina went on. She turned her attention back to Ruse. “I’ve heard all about how you survived an animal bite years ago. Maybe the animal should’ve taken a larger bite to kill you.” She ducked behind a friend to put a body between herself and Ruse.

Before Ruse could push the issue, a young man with a brown beard appeared among them. He wore a tunic, trousers, and robes with dozens of pockets and wielded a brown staff. It seemed obvious he didn’t need it. From the elevated shoes he wore, it was also obvious he wanted to be taller than his reality allowed.

“I,” he announced loudly, “am Falcon. I am the one who will guide you through the selection process. All you have to do is rest your hand on the oaken staff.” He indicated an oversized glowing branch stuck in the ground at the front of the room. “The staff, because it is oak, symbolizes our relationship with the plant world. When you come into contact with the staff, an image will appear behind you. If all you see is your familiar, I deeply apologize, but you have not been accepted. If you see something else, rejoice! For you are among the few chosen. Sometimes, the image speaks, but this is not something that happens often.”

Ticia called out names, and, one by one, each teen shuffled up and put a hand on the staff. Consistently, nothing happened except familiars being projected onto the wall. Fa shrugged when Orfiel appeared and called, “I could have saved you the trouble.” One teen, rejected by the process, started to cry. Led off the stage by an assistant, he bawled.

Upon the announcement of Irina’s name, she ran up, grabbed the staff, and waited excitedly. An image appeared behind her of the outdoors. The sky roiled gray with storm clouds. The grass at her feet lay dead. Soot and dust covered her hands. Bits of ash blew by. “I am Irina,” said the image, “and all this is mine.” A huge smile erupted on the current Irina’s face. She let go of the branch and joined the small group of those accepted.

“Ruse,” Ticia called. She pronounced her name correctly this time.

“Are you sure?” Ruse called out. She winced at the three options before her; while her peers touched the staff in hope (Option A) or at least indifference (Option B), she found herself constantly at the table of Option C without regard to what she felt. The increased rate of the thud of her heart and the pressure in her head vied for attention. To make matters worse, a bucket’s worth of nervousness erupted in her stomach. On top of that, she had to use the loo.

Ticia raised her voice. “Yes.”

“You might regret it,” Ruse called back. Despite the various discomforts going on in her body, Ruse was stoic and tried again. “I don’t think I should touch your staff.”

“Take your turn,” proclaimed Falcon. “Do not be afraid.”

“It’s not exactly fear,” Ruse retorted. She took several deep breaths. With no way she could win by failing or passing the test, Ruse gave a deep sigh. She stood at Option C again, no option at all. A third name Ruse used for Option C was Fuck It All.

Ruse dragged her feet and knew full well it didn’t stop a futile exercise. First, the left foot, then the right, each step accentuated by the click of the bottom of her shoes hitting the ground. Ruse hugged herself as she kept her gaze on the tops of her shoes.

She cast around briefly to see if anyone could get her out of her situation. The crowd, having heard Ruse try to wiggle out of testing, watched her closely. Some frowned. Some smiled. A few of her classmates wore anticipation on their faces; they knew what came next and didn’t care to warn the instructors.

When she reached the staff, she inhaled deeply. If a person could feel sorry for an item, Ruse felt sorry for the oaken staff. It stood perhaps six feet tall and glowed with a gentle white light. She imagined the staff radiating a soothing benevolence. At the least, it didn’t ask for this treatment. Ruse, steeling herself, grabbed it and then jerked back as if quickly ripping off a bandage. The staff went dark like a snuffed-out candle, becoming an ordinary walking stick.

Everyone had a different reaction to Ruse’s action. Some applauded. Some gasped, horrified. Some laughed. A good many simply pointed.

Ticia’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Unsure what to do, she cried out, “Falcon! Husband!”

The young man, flirting with the underage Irina a moment ago, whirled around with his staff. He stared at the oaken staff gone dark. He glared at Ruse and shouted, “How dare you touch the oaken staff!”

Ruse muttered, “Well, that’s not fair.” At least the various pains in the various parts of her body died down, including the headache. Touching the damn thing had been quite the albatross around her neck all morning.

He glared at her. “How dare an antimagical cross the threshold!” He whipped out a pistol single-handed from beneath his robes and aimed it at her. Its large size and the way his hand drooped indicated to even the most rank amateur it would require him two hands to fire with any accuracy. The way Falcon tried to wave it around with one hand made him more dangerous than authoritative.

Ruse put her hands up, her limbs stiff, and her breath quick. Why did Ticia even bother to ask about her being antimagical if she didn’t know what she was talking about?

The staff slowly regained a tiny amount of its color.

A rustle to the side revealed the agitations of Anpiel, Falcon’s small falcon familiar. Ruse caught the familiar’s eye, which paused its preening to give her a quick nod.

At least the familiars didn’t fear her.

Since her incident eight years ago, Ruse has developed the ability to identify familiars and usually identify who their humans are. She primarily kept this knowledge to herself. In turn, familiars seemed able to identify Ruse and kept the knowledge to themselves. After all, it persisted as a tradition people did not have more than one power, and this ability could be counted as a second power—another reason to ostracize her.

“Abomination,” Falcon cried, bravely continuing to wave his handgun at Ruse and bravely continuing to keep a healthy distance from her. Ruse and her fellow testers scattered, knowing full well the gun could go off even when “empty.” Ruse couldn’t be sure the safety was even on.

Ticia raised her voice. “Dear, isn’t that going a bit far?”

“Yes, yes, it is going too far.” An older man limped into the room. His long silver beard reached to his waist, and while he wore clothing similar to Falcon’s, he gave it a dignity Falcon otherwise lacked. He walked with his own staff but clearly not for affectation. Ruse immediately felt better in his presence. First and foremost, he hadn’t freaked out right away.

“Don’t you see that the antimagical has destroyed the staff and thus the vetting process?” cried Falcon, dropping the nose of the gun toward the floor with inattention.

The old man stopped walking and adjusted his glasses. He turned and faced the young man. “Calm down, Francis,” he groused.

Falcon went red in the face. “Don’t call me Francis, please.”

“Oh, stuff it, Francis.” The old man cleared his throat. “No one got killed, and the staff will be fine in an hour, tops.”

“Hey!” Fa clapped her hands once at Falcon. “I thought I knew you from somewhere. You graduated from our school a few years ago.”

The young man sank into himself.

The old man nodded. “Francis would have you believe he’d been raised by eagles on an aerie if he could convince you.

“Let’s get some order here,” the older man roared. “Francis, put your gun away. Why do you even have that thing?

“You”—the man indicated to the crying teen—“ keep crying. You”— he pointed to the chosen few—” gloat.” He pointed to the untested children. “Mill around and get bored. All of you who are tested, rejected, and fed up just go home. No one has forced you to stay. If anyone asks, tell them Potionmaster Blu will let you leave early. And you”—he turned on Ruse and Fa—”come have tea with me in my garden.”

With order restored, Ruse and Fa cautiously went to tea with the Potionmaster. They’d heard stories of students disappearing in Potions school, only for someone to later find their eyeglasses in a bag of potting soil.

He led them to a greenhouse growing fruits, vegetables, and herbs. They stood at the entrance for a moment; the smells of dirt and condensation permeated the air, and Ruse breathed in deeply. The air felt warmer than the castle proper. Somewhere, a cricket chirped. A welcome relief befell from the previous scenario, although she and Fa remained guarded. Ruse didn’t see any strange plants like wolfsbane or mandrake. She mentioned it to Blu.

“Those are in the basement,” the old man assured her cheerfully. “They tend to grow better in darkness.

“Now, let’s see about that tea, shall we?” After he promised them the teabags held only plain old black tea—real, not magical—the atmosphere became less suspicious.

The old man introduced himself as Blu and his familiar Paco, the wolf. Blu took off the outer layer of his robes and hung it on a coat rack. Paco sat panting, large and handsome, with amber eyes and dark fur.

Blu picked up the large black teapot and filled a cup for everyone. He filled his own cup and turned the spout away from his guests. The raspberry cookies paired well with the tea, though they were magical. Magic food could be fun; Ruse liked to see how far she could eat it before her talent caused it to cease to exist. In her mind, the ephemeral nature of it was sometimes a plus. Treats that vanished as soon as eaten allowed her to enjoy the flavor without the calories or other negative effects of too much sugar. Now, with the worst over, Ruse played a brief game with herself; she took a few cookies and ate them as fast as she could. The cookies slowly dissipated in her mouth as she chewed.

She and Fa sat quietly and waited to be addressed.

The Potionmaster took a sip of tea and put his cup down. “So, you’re antimagical.” He seemed as pleased as if he’d found a gold coin. “I haven’t seen many of your kind. Read about you plenty, though. It’s how I knew the oaken staff would recover in an hour at most. It must be pretty tough that you obstruct any magic you come across and that no magic works on you.”

“Yeah, it’s annoying sometimes. I only obstruct when I touch something directly or through the fabric.” Ruse waited for her tea to cool. As real tea, it wasn’t about to fade away, and Ruse wasn’t fond of burning the roof of her mouth. “I work at an archery range, and magic arrows don’t last long around me.” She frowned. “Is Falcon allowed to wave guns around?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s loaded,” Blu confided. “He’s waved it for years and never used it. Mere artifice, I think.” He blew on his teacup, took a cautious sip, and then set down the cup. “Now tell me, were you born antimagical?”

“That’s what Mama says.” The warm tea ran down her throat and pooled in her stomach. It soothed the way other liquids did not. It tasted slightly sweet, savory, and a little bitter. Its smooth texture filled the mouth, warmer than body temperature but not uncomfortably so. Ruse drank a lot of tea, anyway, partially because of its soothing properties but mainly because her mother didn’t share her coffee beans.

“Can you control how long your magic suppresses a magical’s?” Potionmaster Blu practically danced in his seat.

“I can’t control how long the magic goes away for. Sometimes a minute, sometimes up to an hour.” Ruse shrugged. “You can bet there are times I wish I had better control over it.” To indicate magical chaos didn’t constitute her pastime of choice, she added, “I did try to get an exemption for the oaken staff.”

“Oh, I believe you.” The old man dunked a cookie into his tea. “It’s just Ticia is new and has been known to misplace papers at times, even though Trent helps. Not quite sure what she sees in Francis. He left town one weekend and came back married to her. And she’s nonmagical, too!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Ruse felt a mild surge of anger. Aside from her mother, she had first-hand experience with many nonmagicals, and they were, for the most part, decent people.

His answer relieved her. “Nothing, except Mr. I Have A Gun, doesn’t like nonmagical things.” Blu suddenly changed the subject. “What is your mother’s power? If you don’t think I’m being too nosy, that is.”

“Mama is a nonmagical who works as a lawyer for a chicken-wire magnate. There are always people trying to sue the company because they misuse the product.”

Blu nodded. “Any other family?”

Ruse thought a moment. “Just Uncle Diogenes. And maybe the milkman.”

“Diogenes?” Blu blinked and nodded. “Well, well. It seems he does know everyone.” He turned to Fa. “And what—”

Fa bit into a cookie. “I see glimpses of the future.” She chewed the cookie. “I can be going along, minding my own business, and bang, I get a mental image.”

“Is this beneficial?” Blu asked kindly. He refilled Fa’s teacup.

“It’s like someone suddenly shouting in your ear,” Fa explained. “Only it’s in your head. Sometimes it’s good stuff. Sometimes it’s not good. The worst is when it’s bad, and nothing can be done to avert it.”

Ruse piped up, “Luckily, the episodes aren’t long.”

Fa nodded. She told Blu, “It’s like gaining a glimpse over your neighbor’s fence with a trampoline.”

“And do you get images when you’re around Ruse?” he asked, offering her another cookie.

“Not really, no, But that isn’t why we’re friends.” She took the cookie.

“No,” Blu agreed, “I would suspect not. Did you know Albert Einstein postulated that those who could see the past or future were bending time to reveal the most likely linear outcome?”

The girls, with only Ruse understanding a word, politely nodded.

“Now, why did that young woman call you Little Miss Doldrums?”

“I have depression,” Fa answered. “My da says when I’m an adult, we can try medication.”

Blu nodded solemnly. “Would you like to know my power?” Perking up excitedly, he hovered his hands over the tray of cookies. When he pulled his hands away, there were more cookies. “It is nice to have a power that can’t hurt others.” He picked up a new cookie and bit into it. “Unless you can’t have magical gluten.”

Fa, squirming a bit before, gave a little moan. She put her hand over her stomach. “Did you poison me?”

“What’s this?” Blu raised his eyebrows. “Think I did something to your snack? You’re just getting a case of the winds. The loo is out the greenhouse, take the next hall left, third door on the left.”

“Your loo is indoors?” Ruse asked. The concept of introducing modern plumbing to an old castle didn’t occur to her before.

“Yes, indeed. Also, remember to pull the chain when you’re done.” He took another sip of tea as Fa scurried from the room.

“What else do you know about people like me?” Ruse’s breath quickened, and a sense of delight reached her heart. It wasn’t every day someone knew about people like her. She reached for her cup but knocked it on its side. The cup’s contents spilled onto the table.

The old man ignored the spilled tea, reflecting for a moment. “There has been only one of you at a time in recorded history. This makes your kind exceedingly rare and hard to study. There is as much hearsay and guesswork as facts. It’s pretty common to have at least one nonmagical parent, though. And antimagicals tend to be boys. Isaac Newton said magicals bend reality, but antimagicals rewrite it. I can summon a cookie, but you can change its very existence. It’s because the potential for magic is everywhere, but the reality of antimagic is that it comes from you.”

Ruse blinked a few times with no expression on her face. Blu gifted her more probable information about herself than anyone in her lifetime. After several seconds, she simply smiled and nodded. She would have hugged him if it had been safe. The scent of rain in the greenhouse became sweeter.

“I notice you lack a familiar. Some say it’s because antimagicals don’t want them,” Blu said. He poured himself another cup of tea. He offered a refill for Ruse, who held out her cup.

“I want a familiar,” Ruse added a dribble of milk to her cup. “It would mean I’m a real magical.” Ruse picked up the cloth napkin in front of her. The exceptionally nice cotton weave twisted into a spiral in her hands as she explained, “I have never wanted anything so much. With a familiar, I’d have a constant companion, and some types even let you see through their eyes.”

“I think you don’t have one because of your talent. Familiars are magical, so they cannot survive for long around you. Maybe you could get a nonmagical parrot. Parrots are smart. They can learn simple commands, and they live a long time. I owned one for twenty years when their lifespan was only fifteen. It taught itself how to unlock its cage and steal my bread.”

Ruse thought about what a mess a parrot would make. “I don’t think a parrot is appropriate.” She smiled politely. “But thank you for the suggestion.”

“Wolves are smart,” Blu went on. “Even those that aren’t magical.”

“I’m not sure Mama would let me have a wolf.” Ruse let out a sigh as she contemplated the lack of wolves in her life. She reached out and took another sip of tea.

“You don’t know until you ask. Paco here has lots of babies with his nonmagical mate. I could give you one as a gift.”

Paco growled.

“Oh, pardon me. Paco says you’d have to take two.”

A smile crept up Ruse’s features, but she shook her head. “Mama wouldn’t let me keep them. She won’t even let me get a cat.” She let go of the napkin and set it back on the table.

When Fa came back from the chamber, she exclaimed excitedly, “I am getting one of these put in at home.” Her hands were wet from the little fountain near the loo set there to clean them. She wiped them dry on Orfiel, who quacked in annoyance.

“Sorry, Orfie,” she called with sweet insincerity.

Ruse piped up, “He doesn’t like it when you call him Orfie.”

“How do you know?” Fa asked.

Ruse thought quickly. Despite their close bond, Fa didn’t know Ruse could recognize familiars. “He gets grouchy after you call him that. I’ve never seen a duck have so many temper tantrums