“My word,” Belamy muttered, “you really managed to do it, didn’t you?” He chuckled to himself, a dry noise not unlike a cough. “You’d have to have done, in order to know how hard it is to stop.” He ticked the enhancer with an outstretched finger, setting it lazily spinning once or twice before it began to resettle. “Yes, one must be ever so careful when seeing afar. Of course, for me, the only danger is squandered time that could be otherwise spent reading and learning. When I was younger, though…” He shook his head. A dark cloud sank his features—a memory of shame?—but it passed quickly. He laughed again. “I spent so long at the ball that I passed out. On my way down, I hit my head.” He pointed to his left, at the corner of his desk. There was a slight stain there, darker than the wood around it. It was almost imperceptible. “I would have died had I not been found. You shouldn’t ever try this without someone else around. It could be the death of you, no matter what you find within the glass.”
She nodded. I would’ve stayed there forever, watching Twitch even up to where he chucked snow at my window. “Yeah.”
“All magic is dangerous, Skate. Better that you learn that now, before it’s had a chance to do any lasting damage to you. It’s unforgiving, and even the simplest applications of it take years of study to perform with any measure of safety. As long as you’re aware of the danger,” he added with a smirk, “you should be fine. But never charge in unawares where the Craft is concerned. Many before you have done so, and it’s left them scarred or obliterated. I’d hate to see the same happen to you.”
Skate fought hard to avoid screwing up her face in confusion at the kind words. This was the man who’d stormed out in a huff hours ago because she’d asked questions about some letters. Now he’s expressing hope for my safety?
She must have been slow to hide her confusion, because Belamy coughed and lowered his own gaze to the floor. “I…apologize for earlier. You had no idea what you were asking, or how it could possibly have upset me. You see…” He paused, then shook his head. He raised his gaze from the floor. “Well, it can wait until morning. I imagine you’re tired.”
She was. Her lids were very heavy. She nodded, but said, “I’d still like to know.”
“In the morning. I promise. Off with you, now. Make sure you have the vent open; I’ll keep the fire going. And remember,” he added as she made her way up the stairs, “be mindful of anything strange you might want to do. I don’t want you trying to burn the house down because some street people put you in a trance.” He pulled a book from the shelf and began to read it. It was one of Gherun’s.
Chapter 20
In which coffee is made, a story is begun, and a name is revealed.
Skate was in front of the fire, wrapped up in the blanket she’d used as an improvised book bag, and holding a hot cup of coffee prepared by Rattle, when Belamy began to tell his story. He was seated in a chair, facing the fire. Rattle was resting in his lap, unmoving as the old man kept a hand on the glassy surface of its eye-body. Petre was also downstairs, though he asked to be on the desk rather than with everyone.
When Belamy spoke, his voice was calm and measured, as if he were reciting a story he’d learned through rote memorization. His eyes did not leave the fireplace.
You asked what AB is, and you asked innocently enough. I’m sure Petre counseled you not to, but the curiosity of a child is rarely turned aside by such warnings. I reacted much more harshly than I should have. The question caught me off-guard, as it is something I have not heard for many years and have grown completely unaccustomed to talking about. There was a time when it was all I could talk about, when I took the pain and moved it toward some more productive purpose, a goal to find justice, to set right what went wrong. It consumed my thoughts for decades. It’s the reason I became what I am today, the reason I was not ready to let my life end before dealing with the trouble of my soul, the burden I refused to renounce.
You see, AB is not just a pair of letters. They are initials, carved into the desk upstairs by one of the most important people in my life. Alphetta Belamy. She was my student. She was my daughter.
She was a wonderfully gifted young girl, a child whose sharp mind was matched only by her adventurous spirit. I was as likely to find her climbing the walls as to catch her at studies that no one had set her to. She was like her mother that way; Eliza was a flame, a passionate woman, and brilliant to boot. It was impossible for her to be content without something to chase, something to conquer and strive for. The only reason I ever left the house in those days was to follow her on her schemes. Her loss during Alphetta’s birth was a blow I did not know that I would be able to recover from. Perhaps seeing so much of her mother in Alphetta helped, or perhaps it was simply the passage of time. I don’t know. Eventually, though, the pain became less crippling, and Eliza became a companion again in memory, a refuge to return to when talking to myself, a mental stronghold of comfort and support as I raised our daughter alone.
As Alphetta grew, she began to take an interest in magic, which I had feared. I had hoped instead she would seek another occupation, another obsession to excel at. She could have done much fantastic work, regardless of what she set her mind to, but she was adamant about becoming a witch. My refusal to take her on as apprentice, I think, wounded her. I knew that I was taking a razor to her dearest hopes, but I could do no other. The study of magic was too dangerous, even under my protective eye. I could not bear to risk losing her as I had her mother. She did not understand, and I did not have the words to make her. I had taught her to read and write, which she did with exceptional skill, but I could not teach her this. Maybe if I had taken her on, things would be different. I have often thought about that; even now, I wonder. It is my deepest regret, to have turned her away out of fear of her or my own failure.
I had an apprentice at the time. I think that irritated her to no end, that I would teach these arcane mysteries to another, but withhold them from her. She could not—or would not—understand my actions for what they were, did not see them as protection but as cruel deprivation. Petre Hangman had been under our roof for a little under a year by then, and was showing promise. His father had taught him the basics of literacy, so that part of his education went by exceedingly fast, and the elder Hangman had agreed to pay handsomely for his son’s education in the study and practice of magic. During those days, before the war started, hangmen did well in general; the crown became paranoid before deciding war to be the necessary course of action, and anyone suspected of disloyalty went to the noose, as did thieves, murderers, brawlers, and the like. So, Petre’s sire could afford the high price.
Petre was older than Alphetta, but only by three or four years. That first year with us was rather chilly between them, as she found him irritating and he found her somewhat haughty. After I refused her request, though, the relationship warmed. I think that probably had much to do with the fact that they were the only two other people here in the house, and I made a convenient target for their shared frustrations. For Alphetta, an overprotective and stifling father had kept her from her heart’s desire. For Petre, a demanding and stern master was expecting excellence in all things at all times. I may have pushed them together by my decisions.