Small Magics (10 page)

The house came into sight and Thomas stopped. He could feel his heart beating hard and fast and he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. “Well,” he said, when he was done. “This is it, then.”

“Maybe we could come in with you?” suggested Eileen. “I don’t mean to stay, but just to see you to the door. Your father can’t object to two old friends walking you home, could he?”

It was not a good idea, Thomas knew, but he was immensely grateful for the suggestion. Fortunately, George saved him from having to reply. “Bringing uninvited guests to his father’s party won’t help Thomas’s cause. He’s better off going in alone.”

Thomas nodded, desperately wishing his friends
could
come in. “I probably am.” He tried a smile, which he doubted looked at all sincere. “Though, if it goes like yesterday, he’ll disown me and I’ll be joining George at the smithy.”

George grinned. “Not with those chicken wings you won’t. But don’t worry. The Mayor will probably take you on as a school-teacher for the young ones.”

“Don’t even joke about it,” Eileen said, slapping her brother’s arm with considerable force. She turned to Thomas. “Your father was probably in a mood of some kind. Today, it will have passed and all will be well again. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.” He took another deep breath. “Well, from here we can all be seen from the house, and…”

“And it wouldn’t do to be seen with the lower classes,” said George, his smile showing he didn’t mean it at all. He reached forward and gripped Thomas’s hand. “Come tell us all about it at the Fire.”

“If he lets me out of the house, I will.”

Eileen stepped forward. “We’ll see you tonight, certain,” she said, taking his hand when her brother let go. “Even your father wouldn’t let a bad mood keep him away from Fire Night.” She squeezed Thomas’s hand. “Good luck.”

The feeling of her fingers wrapped around his sent Thomas’s thoughts well away from his father and in a direction that discomfited him in an entirely different way. He did his best not to show it and squeezed back, keeping his eyes on hers. “Thank you.”

Eileen smiled, held his hand a moment longer, then let go. She and her brother turned away and headed back down the road to the village. Thomas watched them go. About twenty paces away, Eileen looked back at him. She saw him watching and looked away at once. Blushing, Thomas thought, though he couldn’t be sure at the distance. Between that and the warmth in his fingers where her hand had squeezed his, Thomas found himself completely distracted.

Don’t be a fool,
Thomas thought, as he walked towards his father’s house.
She’s just being nice. Besides, she’s George’s sister and you have enough trouble as it is.

He reached the front gate, and all his thoughts of his father came crashing back to him. It took him several tries before he could bring his legs to march him forward. Once they got moving, though, they seemed in a desperate rush. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the polished hardwood of the front door, wondering what to do next. The windows of the sitting room were open, and he could hear conversation within. He picked out his brother’s voice, then his mother’s, then Gavin’s. There were others, but Thomas didn’t recognize any of them. He reached for the door, stopped, mustered his courage and reached again.

He couldn’t bring himself to open it. He felt like an unwanted visitor, rather than a family member coming home.

Fine,
he thought.
If he wants to treat me like a stranger, I’ll act like one.

Thomas reached up to the knocker and rapped it firmly against the door. Inside, the voices fell into a hush, broken only by a single set of boots moving across the floor. Brian opened the door. He looked at Thomas in surprise.

“Master Thomas? Why didn’t you just—”

“I’m home, Brian,” His voice felt ready to break, and he forced it to be steady and calm. “Would you tell my father?”

Brian nodded once and stepped back from the door. “At once.”

“Well, don’t stand there, Thomas,” said his mother, coming to the door. “Come in.”

Madeleine was dressed in a fine green gown trimmed with gold thread. Her hair was done high, her hands adorned in rings and her face schooled into the expression she wore when she was not at all happy but couldn’t show it. She reached out, took Thomas’s arm, and led him inside the house. There were several guests Thomas didn’t recognize, talking to his brother and each other in the main parlour.

“Gentlemen,” Madeleine announced, “it is my pleasure to present my youngest son, Thomas. He has just returned from the Royal Academy of Learning.”

“Of course,” said the nearest, a fat man whose wide face burst into a large smile. “Your father told us you would be returning today. I’m surprised he didn’t declare the dinner to be in your honour.”

“Thomas, this is Frederick Needham, head of the weaver’s guild.”

“A pleasure,” Thomas shook the man’s hand.

“I hadn’t expected you to look so civilized,” said a second man who seemed to have been the source for Needham’s extra weight, as he had so little of his own. “Why, when my boy came back from the Academy, he was thread-bare, thin as a rake, and talking philosophical nonsense for hours on end.”

“Glen Tripoli,” his mother interjected. “Master of Horse. He supplies the animals for our carts.”

“Pleased, I’m sure.”

The rest of the introductions went by in a blur. Thomas missed most of the names, but did his best to be polite. All of them asked about the Academy, and he did his best to answer their questions, talking about his classes, his friends, and the city itself. The conversation eventually switched back to merchant matters and Thomas’s mind began to drift. His father had ideas about Thomas working for one of the merchant houses when he was done his study of the law, but the more Thomas listened to them talk, the less likely it seemed.

One more thing to disappoint him with,
thought Thomas. He immediately quashed the thought. Self-pity wasn’t going to help him figure out what was going on. He could indulge in it later.
Say, while I’m working at the forge with George.

That thought brought a smile—a cynical smile, but a smile nonetheless—to his face, and he wore it as he circulated the room.

Thomas’s mother went back and forth between the sitting room and kitchen, talking to the guests one moment and directing the cooks and the servants the next. Neal circulated through the room, making certain everyone’s drinks stayed full and chatting with the various merchants and suppliers. Thomas watched them in moments between conversations. Both were very tense, though both were covering it up well enough that none of the guests noticed it. Thomas was sure it had to do with his sudden departure the day before, but knew there was no way to take either of them aside to find out. Both were too busy being hosts. Instead, Thomas passed his time pretending to be interested in the other men’s conversations and anxiously awaiting his father’s arrival.

It was very unlike John Flarety to not already be in attendance. Even in his worst mood, Thomas’s father normally wouldn’t dream of leaving his guests alone for any length of time. This day, though, he was nowhere to be seen.

It was only when his mother announced dinner that John Flarety stepped into the room. He came through the hall door, and had the slightly rumpled look of a man who had been working at a desk. His clothes were even finer than Thomas’s, though the colours were sober, as befitted a wealthy merchant. Thomas expected him to smile at his guests, at least. Instead, his expression was flat, and void of emotion. His eyes went over his guests as though they were market-place cattle. He walked into the room, nodding briefly at his wife. For a moment Thomas thought his mother was going to snap at his father, but she held her tongue. John Flarety moved through the room, shaking hands and muttering words of greeting until he came to a stop in front of Thomas.

Thomas suddenly realized how desperately he was hoping his father would welcome him; that he would show some of the pride he had put in his letters. He found himself standing straighter, holding his head high.

John Flarety surveyed his son from head to foot as if calculating the worth of a measure of cloth. At length, he nodded. His look, when he met Thomas’s gaze, was cold and hard. Thomas could feel his stomach sinking and his hopes for a welcome fading as he stared into his father’s eyes.

“Well,” said John Flarety at last, “it is good to see that you can dress properly when the occasion calls for it.”

Thomas had no reply.

“This is how my son should look when he comes home.” John turned towards the doorway he had come through. “Do you not agree, your Grace?”

All eyes followed John Flarety’s to the bishop. “Indeed I do,” said Bishop Malloy. “One can scarcely recognize you without the dirt, young Thomas.”

Thomas managed to keep his tone civil. “I am glad your Grace approves.”

The bishop turned to the others there. “Before yesterday, I was beginning to think John Flarety only imagined the existence of his second son.” A polite chuckle circled the room, dying before it reached Thomas’s father. The bishop smiled at Thomas, his tone remaining politely amused. “Shall we talk later, you and I? I understand that those at the Academy have some rather…
interesting
opinions of the Church of the High Father. I would love to hear yours.”

And won’t that be fun.
“I will look forward to it, your Grace.”

“So will I.” The man stepped forward and held out his ring. Thomas looked at it a moment. No one else in the room was being asked to make formal obeisance and he had no doubt no one else was going to be. Just behind the bishop, Thomas could see his father watching him. His eyes flicked to the bishop’s face. There was something burning in the bishop’s eyes.

What is with this man?
Thomas wondered as he bowed and kissed the ring.
What did I ever do to him?

“Now,” said the bishop, as Thomas straightened, “I believe that you announced dinner, did you not, madam?”

***

“There is a weakness,” said the bishop, as the final dishes were cleared from the table, “in the moral fabric of our youth.”

Dinner had been five courses, and each had been excellent. Hot, fresh bread and butter followed by a clear, fragrant onion and beef soup served in cheese-covered bowls. Brook trout in a lemon sauce came next, then a slow-cooked venison in a rich pepper sauce that melted in one’s mouth. Dessert was a tart that was half berries, half alcohol and served with brandy-infused whipped cream. Wine had flowed freely, with a different vintage for each course.

Thomas, while eating the last of his tart, had calculated the cost of the meal to be at least equal to two months’ rent on his apartment. Lemon and pepper both had to be imported. Venison was scarce and hunted only by commission. The wines alone represented a huge investment. His father was obviously out to impress his company and was sparing no expense to do so. Thomas wished the evening had not been so tense. He would have loved to eat the same meal without the feeling of impending doom.

Thomas’s father had not said much to him during dinner, but had held court with the merchants and the bishop, keeping their conversation easy and free flowing. Those seated next to Thomas had been quite polite, and continued to ask Thomas about his time in the city and what life was like at the Academy. Thomas had the distinct feeling that several of them were looking for a new lawyer and were wondering if he would fit the bill. Thomas’s father would stop talking and listen on these occasions, and while a frown never actually crossed his face, Thomas could almost see it building up in his eyes. Bishop Malloy had listened to it all without comment until Thomas, at the request of Glen Tripoli, started listing his favourite pubs. Now, the bishop’s words were certainly having an effect, for the entire table fell silent and turned towards him.

Glen Tripoli was the first to respond. “Well, I’m not certain about that—”

“I am,” said Bishop Malloy. “The morals of our youth are not the morals of their parents. Where we have focused on the High Father who leads the Four, they have focused on the Rebel Son, who lives for this world, and the Blessed Daughter who gives us frivolity. Where we focus our eyes to the betterment of those around us, they focus on amusing themselves, usually at the expense of others.”

Frederick Needham smiled. “It’s a common disease. It’s called being young.”

“Nonsense,” John interrupted, surprising Thomas both with his tone and his agreement with the bishop. He had heard some stories of his father’s youth, and knew that John Flarety was not one to talk. “The problem,” John continued, “is that these young folks have lost their sense of what’s right.”

“Quite correct,” agreed the bishop, warming to the topic. “Not to reflect on you, Merchant Tripoli, for I am sure you tried—” the words slid out of the bishop’s mouth in a way that was just this side of insulting, “—but you have to admit that the young of today are much wilder than what they were. And what’s worse, rather than keeping them close to hearth and home, where they can be properly disciplined, fathers are sending their sons away and placing their education in the hands of those whom they barely even know. Thomas here,” a pair of fingers flicked quickly, dismissively, in Thomas’s direction, “for example.”

“And a sad example he is,” agreed John. “I sent him away for schooling and he comes home penniless and threadbare and as near as I can tell, hasn’t learned a thing.”

The words were like a knife, driven into Thomas’s stomach and twisted. He opened his mouth to protest, then firmly shut it. There was nothing he could say that his father wouldn’t refute, and Thomas had no intention of arguing with the man at the dinner table. Whatever was going on,
he
wouldn’t be the one to embarrass the family. He could see the very tight expressions of his mother and brother and guessed that they were thinking very similar thoughts. Around the table, all the other guests were looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“I know he dresses up well enough,” John Flarety continued, “but you wouldn’t have known it yesterday. The boy was a disgrace. Holes in his jacket and a ragged bag on his shoulder. He looked like a vagrant.”