How bad could it be?
6Sondre
Sondre stared forlornly into the pot of tea he’d magicked up. That was what the teen called it: “Magicked up.” The teapot, obviously, was not filled with tea. Between Maggie’s escape, capture, and the arrival of her son, Sondre had wished that he could simply stay perpetually inebriated.
Probably a bad plan,Sondre admitted as another yell came from his once-peaceful home.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” Craig yelled as he stomped into the room.
“The headmaster of the College of Remedial Magic,” Sondre said mildly.
“Well, I’m not a witch or a student, so… piss off.” Craig crossed his arms over his chest and glared.
No hitting children. Not even a tap.Sondre repeated the mantra to himself for the dozenth time that day.
“What exactly is the drama now?” Sondre tried to remember that his acerbic tone was fine for students but not his son.
“I am sick of being trapped in here.”
“It’s dangerous outside the castle, Craig,” Maggie said, voice pulled tight as if the strain of parenthood and the pressure of her magic combined to make her chest constrict.
“So send me back.”
One of the hobs popped into the room, appearing out of thin air as they were wont to do. “Perhaps some toys for the young mast—”
“I’m not achild,” Craig yelled. All the boy did the last few days was yell.
The air is less dangerous this week.
“Fine. You want to go out? Let’s go out.” Sondre stood. “Maggie, you have class. I’ll sort this out.”
“If you’re both sure?” Maggie said.
“Go to class, Mom.” Craig bent down to kiss his mother’s cheek, suddenly sweeter when Maggie’s voice took on that fragile-glass note. “I’m safe with him. You know that.”
He was, but it felt good to hear Craig acknowledge that truth all the same. Sondre wished the boy could yell less frequently, but in all, he’d had an abrupt adjustment—like all witches—but without the salve of having magic. Craig was in a brand-new world with new people, new rules, new everything. It had to be challenging for him.
Once the door closed behind her, Sondre turned his most menacing stare at the younger, male version of his new bride. “Let’s take a proper tour of the village.”
“Really?”
The trace of hope in the boy’s voice was enough to make Sondre wonder for the 337th time if there really was ever that much joy in the experience of being a witch. Witches lived for centuries, but that was all spent locked away in the tiny hamlet of Crenshaw. Maybe it was the fact that Sondre himself was approaching a century of life, or maybe guilt ate away at joy.
Whatever the cause, Sondre felt a smile slip out.
“Yes, really. If you get sick, though, your mother will be devastated,so you’ll wear a mask.” Sondre went over to the cupboard and pulled out a gas mask he’d had fashioned for the boy. “No breathing poison.”
“Is this really necessary?” Craig lifted the bulky black contraption.
It looked like a relic, something as old as Sondre, but thanks to magic it was as good as new. The fabricating witch, Ellie, had created several of them for the boy and her aunt—and a few spares for witches who were low in magical reserves.
“Better isn’t the same as gone. I promise you that when it’s over, you can stop wearing it.” Sondre wasn’t going to budge on this. The toxin that was slowly seeping into the village made things stink of sulfur, and the gaseous air killed any witch whose magical levels weren’t high enough to repair the constant damage from the poison.
“Fine.” Craig sulked.
“If we go inside anywhere the air’s not bad, you can take it off.” Sondre paused and, feeling rather like leaning into the dad thing, added, “It’s like a condom. They’re always a good idea unless you’re one-hundred-percent sure you’re safe.”
Craig stared back at him, blinking. “Are we going to have a birds-and-bees talk?”
