Fallen Magic

Edward refuses to explain the details of the mysterious project there and then, and instead leads me to a private meeting room he’s reserved for the day. I wasn’t even aware the Academy had private meeting rooms, much less that they were available to students. Then again, I couldn’t reserve one: they’re only for doctorate-level students and those with a special dispensation from the board of governors.

It turns out getting a special dispensation from the board of governors isn’t too hard when you’re Henry Blackthorn’s son.

“The privacy wards aren’t ideal, naturally,” he says as if to someone who’s perfectly used to contemplating what level of privacy wards are needed for her next conversation. “But they’ll keep out magical bugs and block sound from travelling in or out, which is good enough for our purposes.”

“Do you expect to be spied on, then?”

“It’s unlikely, but I have to take sensible precautions.”

Well, if he says so, though I’m still not convinced we need to go to all this bother unless his project involves breaking the Academy’s rules, if not the law. And I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal.

The private rooms are on the sixth floor, and Edward climbs the stairs at a march that leaves me short of breath by the time we reach it. Looking up while on the staircase is a much less disorienting feeling from this high, with the ceiling only three or four times higher than that of a normal building, close enough that I can properly appreciate the ornately carved laurels that form a great circle over our heads. I don’t look down.

“Here we are,” says Edward, already a few steps down the west corridor. “Room Three.”

By the time I’ve jogged over to him, he’s pulled a palm-sized wooden disc from a pocket of his robes and is inserting it into a similarly-shaped space in the panelling of the room’s door, which seems much newer than most of those I’ve seen.

When he removes his hand from the door, the disc stays where it is with only a thin crack marking it as separate from the door, and after a second it swings smoothly open: it opens outward, so I have to dodge out of the way to avoid being hit.

I’m not even that surprised any more, just a little surprised that I’m not surprised. Is it this easy to get used to magic?

The room is small, no larger than my bedroom back home, and contains only a large wooden table and half a dozen cushioned chairs spread around it. It’s dark, too: we’re close enough to the centre of the building that none of the walls border the outside and so there can’t be windows. There’s no enchanted light or even candles in evidence, either.

“Lights should come on once we shut the door,” says Edward, stepping inside. “And if they don’t work, we’re magicians.”

I silence the little voice telling me that I shouldn’t be entering a dark room with someone I barely know, follow him, and shut the door behind me.

It’s pitch black for a single moment, and then the enchanted light abruptly turns itself on. It’s a large glass hemisphere attached to the ceiling, and brighter than any other enchanted light I’ve seen – it hurts my eyes to look directly up at it, even.

“So,” says Edward, dropping his satchel onto the nearest chair. “It’s about what we discussed over breakfast.”

The newspapers, and what they say – and don’t say – about his Fall. I gave him an idea of some sort this morning, didn’t I? It seems like it’s been far more than half a day since then.

“My dad isn’t going to do anything. Both because he can’t be seen to be influencing the papers and because… honestly, I don’t think he cares if people think he’s a – you know.”

Abuser. Monster. Villain. I do know.

“But you do care.”

He nods. “Not just about his reputation. About mine. I’m not a victim, not of my father or of – anyone else.”

Am I imagining that fractional pause? Does that mean there’s someone out there who hurt him to the point of Falling?

I’m reminded of what he told me last night: Have you never been angry enough at someone to make them want to hurt? I find to my surprise that I feel that way about whoever might have done that to him.

“And you don’t want to be portrayed as one,” I say after a fractional pause of my own.

“No. So I need to start telling my own story. I can’t be interviewed, or take questions – that would end in either an active episode or the revelation of state secrets – but I can give the papers a statement.”

He sighs and opens his bag, then begins pulling out sheet after sheet of parchment, ripped, torn, scribbled on or torn into a ball. “At least, I thought I could. Turns out writing a carefully-worded statement that gets across what I want to say without revealing anything I don’t is harder than it looks.”

“You haven’t been taught how?” I ask, a little surprised.

Edward shrugs. “My dad doesn’t even handle most of it himself, he has employees who do that for him. I guess he didn’t think it was necessary for me to learn just yet.”

“And you’re asking me to help you with this?”

He shrugs. “My dad’s employees work for him. They won’t take orders from me. And you seemed against the papers, and if you’re – if you were going to be a lawyer,” he corrects quickly, “you’re more qualified for this than I am at least.”

That is to say: not even remotely qualified in any way whatsoever. I suddenly find myself laughing. Me. Not even a lawyer-in-training, without even my Certificate of Education, having completely failed at that. Being asked to write a statement, for a Blackthorn, to be released to all the country’s major newspapers.

“Tallulah,” says Edward after a few seconds have passed and my maniacal laughter hasn’t stopped. “Are you okay?”

No. No, I am not okay. Either the world is mad, or I am. I feel as if I’m watching a girl laughing at the sheer absurdity of her situation through a windowpane –

Oh. This is a Malaina episode.

I probably need to stop it before it becomes an active one.

There isn’t any urgency to that thought.

How am I supposed to stop it, anyway? Focus on my breathing. Yeah, that’s totally something I can do while overcome by this mad laughter.

Something leaps across the room and throws itself around me. I flinch for a moment before I realise what it is.

Edward. Edward is hugging me, holding me tightly, giving me something to cling to.

We stay like that for a long while, until my heartbeat slows and my breathing calms and I feel like myself again.

“How…” I ask finally.

“How did I know that would work?”

I nod.

“My dad said that when someone’s in an episode, a good way to bring them out of it is to do something… something unexpected, but not harmful. I don’t know why that helps – I’d guess it’s because Malaina expects a particular set of responses, and getting one that’s far enough outside that can be enough of a surprise that it shocks you out of it. Hugging you was the first thing I thought of. I’m sorry if you didn’t want – “

“No,” I say. “No. I don’t mind. Thank you.”

He releases me slowly and takes a step or two back so we’re separated by the normal sort of distance between conversation partners. “You’re welcome.”

“Your dad knows about Malaina, then? I mean, of course he does, he’s a Royal Magician, but – “

“About how to cope with it? Yes. He told me he had a friend who was Malaina once.”

There’s an awful note of finality to that once. Given what we’re talking about, I can’t help wondering if this friend became mala sia. Would I know about it, if they did? Probably not unless it was within the last few years.

“What happened?”

“That’s classified. I’m quoting him there, I don’t know any more than you do. Everything he doesn’t want to answer is classified.”

There’s a faint note of tension there, but I don’t comment on it.

“Do you want to talk about why…”

Why I had an episode because of his asking for my help with this project? Not particularly. Stars, I barely know why myself. “No. Sorry. I can’t – “

“Tallulah. Don’t apologise to me. Don’t apologise for Malaina.”

“But I – “

“Apologising,” Edward continues, ignoring whatever I’m trying to say, “implies that it is your fault. It is not.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t. But whatever happened, whatever is happening, blaming yourself for Malaina is never the right choice.”

He really doesn’t understand. “I can’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not… Stars.” It’s harder than I thought it would be to explain what should be blindingly obvious. “I’m a fifteen-year-old girl. A normal fifteen-year-old girl. Well,” I correct myself, “not entirely normal, but… not nobility, not a Blackthorn or a prodigy or someone who can just do something like what you’re asking as if it’s nothing.”

Edward stares at me for a moment as if he’s just been reminded that normal people do in fact exist.

“Why did you ask me, anyway?”

“I…” He shakes his head. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t have. Just promise you won’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay.” I turn to go, reach out towards the door handle, and stop.

He hugged me. He brought me out of a Malaina episode. That’s twice now, after the box incident yesterday. Don’t I owe him at least something for that?

Can I really just leave him here when he needs help?

Can I really help him?

Maybe not. But I can at least try.

I turn around again, so I’m facing him. “I can’t promise anything,” I say, “but I’ll do what I can.”

He controls his features, but not quickly enough that I don’t see the pure relief that spreads across them for an instant. “So,” he says, “how do you want to do this?”

I’m still wearing my satchel, so I begin by pulling out quill and parchment. “What… what do you want to say?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need your help, would I?” There’s no edge to his tone; his voice is… almost playful, as if he’s bantering with a friend.

“Not exact words,” I clarify. “But… general sentiments. Ideas.”

“It’s not my dad’s fault,” he says immediately. “He’s a good father.”

I can think of many ways to describe Lord Henry Blackthorn, but good father isn’t among them. “Is he?” I ask without thinking.

Edward doesn’t answer for a long moment, and I worry I’ve asked something too personal, but then he finally replies “He tries. But… he has two jobs, either of which would consume a man’s entire life, and he does both well.”

And there are a scant few hours left over for his son.

I can relate to that a lot.

“Got it,” I say, not wanting to linger on uncomfortable territory. “The terrifying Lord Blackthorn is secretly a good dad, and he had nothing to do with your Fall.” As soon as I say that the implication of telling it to the country is obvious. He’s not going to like it. “People are going to have questions.”

“I’m not doing this to redeem him in the eyes of the people,” Edward says. “Even I know when something is completely impossible.”

“That’s… not what I meant. If not him,” I ask, “then why?”

His face twists into a grimace. “That’s classified.”

“You mean you don’t want to talk about it. I understand – really – I’m willing to bet whatever story you have isn’t as humiliating as mine – but people will ask that, and if you don’t have an answer…”

“…then no-one will believe me,” he finishes. “Which is a problem, because I didn’t mean I don’t want to talk about it, I meant it is actually classified and telling the papers is not remotely an option.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That is a problem.”

“And I can’t lie about it – “

“Obviously – “

“Because that would be stupid when people desperately looking for any legitimate accusations they can stick to my family start fact-checking it.”

I can’t help laughing.

“What?” asks Edward, but he’s smiling a little too.

“I thought you were objecting to lying because, you know, it’s morally wrong?”

Edward sighs. “What’s the point of being a Blackthorn if you can’t have questionable morals occasionally? But that doesn’t help us, and outright stating it’s classified is as good as an admission I’m hiding something.”

“So… it won’t work?” I can’t help feeling a little relieved at the idea, and immediately hate myself for that thought.

He shakes his head. “We’ll just have to let people ask questions. I think we can still convince at least some, if it’s persuasive enough.”

“You mean if I’m persuasive enough,” I say flatly.

“If we are. And we will be.”

Stars help me, I almost believe him.