“I didn’t excel at those subjects. I don’t enjoy literature or poetry, either, really.”
“What? Those are some of life’s chief pleasures.” I didn’t think Magnus was trying to bait me. He seemed curious.
“I’m not interested in what’s pleasant. I’m interested in what’s useful,” I said. Blackwood lowered his paper and looked at me. Something about his gaze was unsettling.
“Are you a good judge of what’s useful?” he said. By his expression, he clearly disagreed.
“I like to think so. Yes,” I said, pulling my shoulders back. “Do you doubt it?”
“I think that you feel things very strongly.” He returned to his paper. “And emotions often cloud better judgment.”
I wanted to rip his paper away, but I knew that would be proving the point. Instead, I aggressively drank my tea. Two months of this would feel like a lifetime.
“Anyway,” Magnus said slowly with an annoyed glance at Blackwood, “is that why you never went for a governess position? Your love of what’s useful?”
“That, and the other thing.” I looked into my porridge, toyed with it.
“Setting fires?”
“No. Well, not only that. Rook. Taking a position would mean leaving him behind.”
“I doubt he’d have wanted you at Brimthorn forever on his account,” Magnus said.
“No. He did not.” There was silence. When I looked up again, I found Magnus staring at me across the table, wearing a troubled look.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” I asked.
Magnus started, then glowered at me. “I have to imitate you, Miss Howel, until you give us a smile.” He replicated my expression so exactly that I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop the laughter. He winked.
Blackwood folded his paper. “Magnus, if you’re finished, perhaps you can report to Master Agrippa in the obsidian room. The day’s lesson should begin after breakfast.”
Magnus put his hand to his heart. “Dear God. Has Lord Blackwood deigned to speak with me? Is anyone paying attention to this historic moment? Will there be commemorative dishware?”
Blackwood closed his eyes and sighed. “Please get ready for Miss Howel’s lesson.”
Magnus pushed back from the table and whistled as he left the room. Blackwood took a final sip from his cup. “Shall we, Miss Howel?”
As I rose, Dee said, “You really should name your stave, you know. Names give one a bit more control over something.”
Bemused, I picked up my stave as I put my spoon back in my empty bowl. “Perhaps Porridge?” I said, grinning.
To my surprise, the carvings glowed with blue light.
“Oh no!” Dee said. “You should’ve given it a grand name. What’ll it say in the history books? Miss Henrietta Howel, the savior of England, and her stave, Porridge?”
I felt the pulse again, almost like a heartbeat. Somehow I knew the stave was pleased. “I think it’ll look quite nice in the books, actually. Porridge it is,” I said, and left with Blackwood for my first lesson.
We walked down the stairs, past curtsying maids and bowing footmen. I kept half curtsying in return, still not sure how to behave. Blackwood acknowledged everyone with ease. He kept his chin up, elegant with his smooth black hair and those strange green catlike eyes. I was sure he thought me graceless. I hoped my training wouldn’t require us to spend too much time together.
“Miss Howel.” He stopped. “I would like to ask something.”
“Oh?” Damn, I really didn’t fancy a private conversation with him.
“May I see your stave? I wondered at a certain design.”
I gave Porridge to him, a bit reluctantly. He twirled it in his hands, a frown creasing his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I would have thought the decoration would be a flame, given your obvious gifts in that area. Instead, it’s tendrils of ivy. That’s a—” He paused.
“A what?”
“A rare insignia.” He handed Porridge to me. I was relieved when it was back in my hands. I didn’t know another person touching one’s weapon could feel so uncomfortably intimate. We continued toward the training area. He kept his hand on his own stave in its sheath, protecting it, as though I might reach over and snatch it without warning.
—
MY HEELS CLICKED AS I ENTERED the training room, and the catch of breath in my throat echoed throughout the space. I knew that sorcerers called their training areas obsidian rooms, but I’d never dreamed of this.
The room was eight-sided, each wall a shining, polished obsidian. Within the walls, strange glowing symbols appeared and disappeared. The floor was jet black as well, save for a great five-pointed star carved with that queer, glowing firelight.
Agrippa stepped forward. He wore black robes with pooling sleeves that draped to the floor. The silken fabric spilled over the obsidian like black moving within black. “These are the official robes of a commended sorcerer,” he said. “It’s not necessary to wear them for training, but I like to, for tradition’s sake.” Hopefully, I would receive robes just like these.
“We do so many things for tradition’s sake,” Magnus said, circling me, “that few of us can remember why we really did them in the first place.”
“Perhaps we should begin,” Blackwood said, removing his stave from the sheath on his hip.
“Did Joan of Arc have a sheath for her stave?” I asked, wanting one of my own. The Maid of Orleans had been the last recorded female sorcerer. I knew our English Order hated that she was so very French.
“I don’t think so,” Agrippa said.
“It’s difficult,” I said, looking down at Porridge, “when your last point of reference died over four hundred years ago.”
I felt a strange charge in the air, as if Magnus and Blackwood and Agrippa all shared some private glance. But when I looked up at the three of them, they were each focused on some separate task. The moment, if there had even been one, was gone.
“There are other sorcerer women in history you might admire,” Agrippa said. “Hypatia of Alexandria, the teacher. Much like you.” He smiled. “Hatshepsut, deemed by many as the greatest pharaoh in Egypt’s long history.”
It struck me as odd that most sorcerer women belonged solely to antiquity, as if the glory of female magic were some crumbling myth to be debated by scholars.
“Now, no more talk,” Agrippa said. “It’s time for the lesson.” He bid me to remain where I was, at the center of the star. They formed a triangle around me. “Sorcerers are strongest in numbers, working best in groups of three. We’re forming this triangle and allowing you to stay in the center so that you don’t have to work as hard in the beginning.” Agrippa took out his stave. “You haven’t named yours by any chance, have you?” He looked pleased when I nodded. “Excellent. Do as I do and say its name.” He brought his stave to the floor, crouched down, and whispered, “Tiberius.”
I copied him and whispered, “Porridge.” Magnus snorted in pleasure. The blue light crept back into the carvings.
“You call power when you do that.” Agrippa noticed my timid handling of the stave. “Do you understand its purpose?”
“Er, it’s a magical piece of wood?” I realized that my book knowledge would take me only so far in this course.
He smiled. “In concert halls, a conductor takes his baton to command the music. It’s the same principle here. Your stave directs the elements of the earth as a baton directs instruments.” He circled me and continued. “You’re at somewhat of a disadvantage. There are six required maneuvers for commendation, all of them enormously tricky. Four demonstrate your mastery of the elements, one shows warding proficiency, and one highlights a specific skill. The young gentlemen have been training since they arrived in my home two years ago. We’ll have to work hard to have you ready by late June.” Sorcerers were always commended on Midsummer Eve, so that gave us nine weeks. Not much time at all. “George, if you would please demonstrate water?”
Blackwood went to a small table, on which sat objects to help with the training. He picked up a bowl of water, brought it over, and set it down in front of me.