Page 49 of Seducing the Sorcerer
That evening, Fenn left Squab in the mews with a pile of rags, and went along to dinner carrying a beeswax candle stub he’d found at the back of the tack room.
Morgrim opened the door with the usual shriek of the bolt, ushered him in and invited him to sit down.
“Thanks.” Fenn held up the candle stub. “I’ll just rub a bit of wax on that bolt first. Makes a right racket, don’t it?”
Morgrim looked at the stub the way a falcon looks at a snake. “You’re always doing jobs about the place. You’re my guest. You mustn’t trouble.”
“No trouble. Sets my mind at rest, knowing things are done.”
“As you wish.”
Fenn rubbed wax on the bolt and slid it a few times to make sure it was done proper. Morgrim watched him, arms crossed, a strange look in his eye. It was impossible to tell if he was annoyed and trying not to show it, or pleased and trying not to show that. All the same, the job was done and the bolt was a sight better than before.
They ate and discussed a theory Morgrim had heard that crystals were responsible for the scarcity of more traditional magicians. The theory was that a jigged crystal sucked raw magic from its vicinity, including out of people. This side effect meant that fewer and fewer people were developing magic of their own.
Fenn had mixed feelings about crystal magic. In his darkest hours he’d felt crystals had done him out of a job, because if there were no crystals, there’d be no horseless carriages or crystal-powered velocipedes. And then everyone would still need horses, and grooms would be in as much demand as ever.
But on the other hand, crystals were so convenient, often cheaper and safer than the old-fashioned alternatives. Out of control fires, for example, were practically a thing of the past. So, to hear that jigged crystals might be having this unwanted effect was alarming. Because crystals were everywhere. Every home had dozens. Fenn had a crystal lamp himself in the stables. And even if the populace knew the dangers, would they really give up all that convenience? All that safety? Even if they did get more magicians into the bargain.
“Would you turn things back, if you could?” Morgrim asked. “To a time when everyone used horses and nobody had thought of crystals?”
“Gods, no. Just because I love horses, don’t mean I want to turn things back. If anything, reckon we need more change. Keep making things fairer. Then one day anyone who really wants a horse could have one, or a share in one. Or whatever it was they wanted, like lots of books, or the time to read them, or a cat, or whatever. Imagine that, eh?”
After dinner they were still discussing it. Fenn watched Morgrim in the candle-light, and admired the black sweep of his hair and the way his dark eyes lit up as they argued. And he could tell Morgrim was watching him back and Fenn knew. There was something about the way Morgrim looked at him. There was. There was longing in Morgrim’s eyes, as if he were drinking Fenn in along with his wine. And he was extra nervous tonight. He was drinking more than he usually did. He’d barely touched his food.
And look at Aramella today, making sure Fenn knew there was nothing between her and Morgrim. There’d been something in how she’d said it. She’d been giving Fenn a hint.
Fenn’s hands were shaking. But there wasn’t no law said an ex-groom couldn’t have a go at the court sorcerer. Morgrim treated him as an equal, never acted like an approach would be out of the question. Fenn was going to say something. He was.
The conversation came to an end. The silence stretched out. Fenn opened his mouth to say something along the lines of I could stay here tonight, maybe, if you wanted, but Morgrim got there first.
“Fenn—may I call you that? Yes? Listen, there’s...something I need to say.”
Oh Gods, here it came. Every fibre of Fenn’s being was ready for it. He could hardly breathe. “Aye?”
“It’s...I’ve found you a place. On an estate to the east. They keep horses. You could work with them, if you wanted. But, more importantly, there’s a magician nearby. She hasn’t much power but I know her and she’s a fine person. A scholar. She’s agreed that you could live with her. She’d make a good teacher. Much better than me.”
It felt as if Morgrim had slapped him. “You’re...sending me away?”
“Hardly that. I’m trying to find you a home. Somewhere to learn about your magic. Somewhere you’ll be happy.”
Fenn stared at him, all the hope and desire draining out of him like spilled wine. He wanted to protest, to say, “but I could live here. I could learn here. I could be happy here. With you”.
But he was too stunned, and then as it began to sink in, too abashed. He’d spent weeks trying to discover if Morgrim was the kind of man it’d be safe to get involved with, while all this time, Morgrim had been trying to find a suitable place to send him. And Fenn ought to say something grateful, because in the usual way of things, he’d have thought this new place sounded grand: an estate, horses, a friendly magician who was willing to teach him. Now it felt like a mortal blow. Because all this time Morgrim had been humouring him, acting the gentleman because that was what he was, and all the time looking for a place where Fenn might better fit in.
Fenn lurched to his feet. If he looked Morgrim in the eye he’d likely die of embarrassment or burst into tears, or maybe both.
“Aye. I see. Well. All right.” He took a deep breath and managed to say “good night, then” to his empty plate.
He turned on legs as shaky a new-born foal’s and walked to the door. He could hardly look at the door either. Because rubbing wax on that bloody bolt had been his idea of flirting. Yes, it had. Because of course that was why he’d done that. It was why he’d done all those things—from fixing shelves to planting ferns to buying kittens. No point pretending otherwise. He’d wanted to give Morgrim the idea that he’d be happy to look after things a bit, if that would be welcome. Because if you looked after things in a bloke’s house, that was a bit like looking after him, wasn’t it?
But chores meant nothing to a man like Morgrim. Anyone might wax a bolt or plant ferns or clean out a gutter. It was what servants did. Burning with humiliation, Fenn opened the door and trudged back to the mews through the rain.
Squab pricked its ears and nickered as he came in. Dully, he rubbed it on the withers and fed it a sock from his pocket. Because it had stayed where he had put it, good as gold. Another time he’d have felt pleased with it. Just now he felt nothing. Because Morgrim had as good as dismissed him. And just when Fenn had let himself really start hoping.
Perhaps he should fly off? Right now. Fly away from all this.
And where would he go if he stormed off into the night? Some dismal lodging house or a pile of leaves in the woods?
