During the night, Carina, finishing her shift and heading for bed, stopped at Alex’s side. She watched the sleeping mage for a moment, then slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand. She shook her head sadly and continued up the stairs.
The feeling of the paper in Alex’s hand woke him a while later. He sat up, forgetting for a brief, blissful moment about all the tragedy that had struck Artimé. But his stiff, aching body soon reminded him.
Alex held the folded note up and studied it, bleary eyed, until the words on it came into focus.
Dear Alex,
I am so horribly sorry to tell you this . . . Mr. Appleblossom has died. He left the enclosed for Samheed. Stay strong, my friend.
Love, Carina
Alex couldn’t comprehend it. He read the words again. It couldn’t be true. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Mr. Appleblossom was gone. The genteel, sensitive, passionate, iambic pentameter poet and instructor. The writer of many plays and musicals, like Perseus! Perseus! and And Then Everyone Dies, The End. Now he was dead. Alex couldn’t process it.
After a minute, Alex looked up at Simber, a question in his eyes.
Simber bowed his head. It was true.
Alex stood and moved up to where Samheed was sleeping. “Sam,” he said, nudging his friend.
Samheed groaned. “What?”
“Wake up. I have some bad news.”
Samheed’s eyes fluttered open, and a moment later he was shoving himself upright, wide awake. “What happened?”
“It’s Mr. Appleblossom,” Alex said, his voice cracking. “Here.” He handed Samheed the note, unable to find the words to tell him that his beloved theater instructor was dead.
Samheed stared at the folded paper for a minute, unmoving, barely breathing. And then he shook his head. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster he shook it, and began whispering. “No,” he said. “No. No, no, no, no, no!” He sank back against the marble stairs and covered his face with his hands.
Alex wiped the moisture from his eyes and sat there, not sure how to help Samheed. Not sure it was even possible to do so. Like Mr. Today had been for Alex, Mr. Appleblossom had been a substitute father for Samheed when he needed it most. There was no comforting that loss.
After a while, Samheed sat up and looked at the paper again. The note was folded into fourths. He took in a steadying breath and unfolded it. Inside was another piece of paper, which had a barely noticeable pencil sketch of Mr. Today imprinted on it. “This is from Mr. Appleblossom’s notebook,” Samheed said. He looked at the words.
For Samheed, it read.
Below it, a few lines written in a shaky hand.
Good night, my son, and dream of victory. A man of greatest honor, you are he. Rise up and lead, and take these reins from me. A master of the theater you will be.
Samheed read the words. At “my son,” the tears came and began to drip on the paper. Hastily he dried it so the ink wouldn’t smear.
Alex, doing the only thing he could think of, reached into his nearly empty vest pocket and pulled out one of the few components he’d had no use for that day—a preserve spell.
“Shall I use this?” Alex asked quietly, showing Samheed the tiny ball of rubber.
Samheed stared numbly, then nodded.
“Preserve,” said Alex, casting the component onto the note. It melted and spread, covering the paper in a nearly indestructible film, preserving the words forever.
“I wish there was a preserve spell for people,” Samheed said after a while.
“Me too,” said Alex.
Eventually their grief was overtaken by exhaustion, and they lay down on their steps and slept again.
Chaos Returns
Just before dawn, Alex was having a weird dream about the chef slapping him in the face with a salmon. It was slimy and wet, and try as he might, Alex couldn’t get away from it. He shook his head and brushed his cheek with his hand.
“Ax,” said a little voice. “Ax!”
Alex vaulted from the tumultuous depths of sleep and opened his eyes.
“Hi, Ax,” said Fifer. She was sitting on the step next to his head, slapping her jammy hand on his face.
Alex sat up, dazed. “Hey there, little Fife.” He wiped his face on his robe, trying to make sense of what was happening. “What are you doing here?”
She held up her fig-jam toast and grinned. “Toes,” she said.
“Toast,” said Alex automatically, emphasizing the t at the end of the word.
“Tote!” said Fifer.
“Close enough,” said Alex. He gathered her onto his lap and looked around. Crow was nowhere to be seen. “How did you get here? You need to stay in the lounge.”
“She came up thrrrough the tube,” said Simber, whose head was completely outside the front window.
“All by herself?”
“Indeed,” said the cheetah. “Made a beeline for the kitchen. I’ve had my eye on herrr.”
“I didn’t realize she could reach the buttons in the tube,” said Alex, worried.
Simber backed up and swung his head around inside the mansion. He nodded at the nearest tube. “She had a little help.”