I shook my head. “The Mage was called David?”
Dr. Wellbelove looked up at me. He cleared his throat. “David Cadwallader.”
“Oh.”
“There are relatives, of course. But the terms of his will are clear: The bulk of the estate is set aside for you.”
“Me?”
Dr. Wellbelove cleared his throat again. “Yes.”
“But . . . that can’t be right,” I said. “Ikilledthe Mage.”
“Well,” Dr. Wellbelove said, straightening the papers, “that may be true. But, legally, it’s irrelevant. You’re still the Mage’s heir.”
The Mage’s estate . . .
What does a man like the Mage leave behind? He already gave me a sword, but I’m not magickal enough to call it. He gave me his father’s wand, and I left it at Watford. I think.
The Mage made me his heir to get me into Watford—only magicians could go to school there, and I wasn’t one. I was a fluke. Killing the Mage was my last work of magic.
If Penny were here, she’d say that Ihadto kill the Mage, thatwehad to kill him. That it was the only way to stop him from killing me and who knows who else. It was already too late to stop him from killing Ebb.
If Penny were here, she’d say it wasn’t myfault.
But theyweremywords.
I killed him.
I killed my . . . mentor, I’d guess you’d call him. My guardian. He never talked to me about father-son things, but I was in his charge. I was his blade, his not-so-secret weapon. I had a place at his right hand.
I never even knew he had a name . . . “There are some personal effects,” Dr. Wellbelove says, “furnishings. His wand and sword, a collection of daggers—”
“I don’t want them.”
“They’re very rare.”
“His family can have them. You said he had a family?”
“Cousins,” Dr. Wellbelove says, “in Gwynedd.”
“They can have it all.”
“There are other assets,” Dr. Wellbelove says. “His savings.”
“The Mage had money?”
“He had his stipend as headmaster and very few expenses.”
“His cousins can have all that, too.”
“No,” Dr. Wellbelove says firmly. “They can’t. Son—” Dr. Wellbelove calls me “son” sometimes, but he doesn’t mean it like a father would. (Well, maybe he means it likeafather, but not like he’s mine.) “Listen to me. I know how unorthodox this is—”
“It’s not unorthodox, it’s demented! I can’t take money for killing him!”
“You’ll take the money because it’s yours, Simon. Legally. And—” Dr. Wellbelove’s face is getting red. “Justly.The man misused you. We all know that now.”
“He nevermisusedme, sir—are people saying that?”
