Page 2 of Sons of Sorrow
I reached for his wrist. “Easy there, tiger. Let’s find out what Brittle has to say, first. Temper your expectations. I’d be really impressed if he could pinpoint the culprit just from examining the parchment alone. There are lots of ways to hide your scent in the magical world.”
Sylvain frowned, the twist in his mouth like an issued challenge. “Like what?”
Like enchantments, I told him as we left our bedchambers. Many mages in the arcane underground had access to scrying, to forms of farseeing that would allow them to spy on others from afar. One would think that it’d make law enforcement a cinch, except that cleverer magical criminals could always use spells and scrolls to maintain their anonymity.
Anything from jewelry to a common T-shirt could be magicked to numb the unique signature of someone’s soul, as a sort of cloaking device. And yes, a cloak could very well be used for that purpose — a cloak of cloaking.
All of this assumed that a mage was responsible for planting the parchment in the first place, but who else would have the arcane knowhow to embed a debilitating plague in something as innocuous as a piece of old animal skin?
I truly wished I could share Sylvain’s optimism and enthusiasm. This parchment was the key to unlocking everything. The source of the Withering, crucial information on its existence, whether it really was a cursed arcane anomaly or an engineered plague.
Sylvain pushed the library doors open. I nearly jumped at the sight of Mr. Brittle, who’d decided to wait just inside the entrance, watching the doors like a falcon on the hunt. Gods, the man really did value punctuality.
At least it meant I wouldn’t have to look at the massive portrait of Grand Summoner Baylor Wilde hanging over the main counter.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Brittle rasped. “You’re on time. Excellent. I appreciate that. If you would just follow me, please. For a matter of this importance, we should speak somewhere that offers us some extra privacy.”
Mr. Brittle shuffled down an aisle of alchemical reference books, good stuff for making potions and lotions of all sorts. I imagined my bestie Bruna Hernandez must have read most if not all of these titles already, being a professor of alchemy at the Wispwood.
A few aisles later we passed shelves with books about animal biology, both the mundane Earth species as well as the rarer mythozoological kind. Namirah, my other bestie — one might even say beastie — would have studied a few of these to refine her mastery of the animal forms she liked to shapeshift into.
I never thought it was an exaggeration to say that the Wispwood library truly offered a valuable service to the student body. Part of why Father donated so much to its preservation and upkeep, softening the hard edges of his reputation, making him seem so kind and generous.
The Wilde grimoire I’d inherited from him would always be my best resource for summoning, but the wealth of knowledge the library held on mythical creatures was completely irreplaceable. Like I said, I couldn’t afford to piss off the head librarian.
But a few aisles further and — wait. I nudged Sylvain with my elbow. “Hey. Didn’t we just pass this aisle a minute ago?”
The same alchemy books from before. We were going around in circles, but Mr. Brittle said nothing and just kept on shuffling.
Sylvain scratched his forehead. “You’re right.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t suppose Mister Brittle is confused, do you?”
The librarian glared at us over his shoulder, but said nothing, only lifting a finger to his lips. His gaze fell meaningfully on the ground behind him, and he turned around to carry on walking. Sylvain gasped. My mouth fell open.
Under his shoes. There. The gleam of his soles. The effect was subtle, but if I looked close enough, I could see the faint trails of magic left by each of Mr. Brittle’s footsteps, a soft glimmer. Around us, the bookshelves wavered, like an old television changing stations, the world as seen through unfocused eyes.
When Mr. Brittle said he was taking us somewhere a little more private, he meant it.
The bookshelves to either side of the aisle quivered, then faded at last, the library fading with them. Gone was the cozy warmth of old books and wooden shelves, replaced by a damp chill. I blinked, and there we were in the not-quite-great outdoors, the sky overcast, the greenery fenced in by tall, trimmed hedges.
“Where in the world are we?” I breathed, a little taken aback by the pleasant drollness of this new place.
The last time Sylvain and I traveled like this, we ended up in a grove where three unicorns were waiting to speak with us. This? This was regular, someone’s backyard. This was quaint, but not at all bad. It was also pretty damn private. If it was a backyard, I couldn’t find the house it was attached to, no nearby roads, no signs of life.
There was a table, too, with four chairs. The wrought iron furniture belonged in a garden, and we had indeed traveled someplace that looked very much like one. A small garden, not quite as lovely as the botanical grounds maintained by the Wispwood’s own gardening imps, but beautiful in its own simplicity. Neat bushes, the aforementioned trimmed hedges, a few well-tended trees.
I spun slowly on my feet, my soles plodding against grass damp from morning dew. See, that was the other thing. We hadn’t just shunted through space, but apparently time itself. Or were we somewhere else on Earth, simply moved into a different time zone?
Mr. Brittle shuffled over to the table. A tray holding a teapot and exactly three teacups awaited. There was a little plate of cookies, too.
“Earl Grey, gentlemen? It’s a lovely blend, a little bergamot for the citrus flavor, some vanilla. Very rich, and quite refreshing.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Sylvain said, rubbing his hands excitedly as he took his seat. Maybe he was more accustomed to dimensional travel than I was, but he seemed perfectly happy to roll with it. Didn’t even look like he was chilly at all, sleeveless hoodie and everything.
“So, Mister Brittle,” I said, taking the chair next to Sylvain, trying not to flinch at the ice-cold of its metal. “You weren’t kidding about taking things private.”
He chuckled, a raspy, yet oddly pleasant sound. I’d never known Mr. Brittle to smile much, but then again, I’d never really known Mr. Brittle at all.
“I do have a life beyond the library and the Wispwood, Mister Wilde.” He poured out our beverages, steam rising from the teacups. “I purchased this property a long while ago. I’d rather not say where we are, precisely, but — well, Europe. Somewhere in Europe.”
