Fallen Magic

I don’t write the letter that night. I discover a mistake I’ve made in a long calculation for Magical Theory, and it takes me ten minutes just to fix that, and then I remember that Sam’s assignment for Magical Law and Culture is an essay on how the role of magicians in the political system has changed over time.

That’s a topic I know a lot about, even more since coming here, and I feel compelled to do it justice. I write for an hour or two before Robin and Lucy arrive to find me sprawled on the floor, scribbling frantically away.

“Tallulah?” Robin asks. “Are you okay?”

…which clearly demonstrates that the aftermath of the Second Civil War marked a dramatic change in… “What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.”

“What are you doing on the floor, though?”

I shrug. “Writing my essay. It’s too painful to get to a study room, so…”

“You’ve written four full sides of parchment,” Lucy says. “We weren’t supposed to write that much, were we?”

“The minimum is two sides, as usual. But I have a lot to say about this topic. I’m barely even halfway done.”

Lucy laughs. “I feel sorry for Sam having to mark all that!”

I’ve been well over the required length before, and he hasn’t seemed to mind; in fact he’s been pleased with my work. But maybe I might be taking it a bit too far here. Then I consider trying to trim it down to a more manageable size, and realise there’s no way to do that without cutting out half the things I want to say. I guess he’ll just have to put up with the extra work I’m giving him.

“Seriously, Tallulah,” Robin says. “Are you okay?”

“…relatively.”

“It’s just I’ve noticed you tend to work yourself too hard as a way of dealing with stress. And after what happened at dinner – “

“What happened at dinner?” Lucy asks.

I don’t particularly want to explain. “No. It’s not that. I just… I really like history, okay? And I enjoy writing about it. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Robin says, “except… have you even eaten?”

Oh. “No. I forgot. It’s fine, I’m not that hungry. I’ll be fine just for one day.”

“Well. At the very least, you are going to stop working now and get some sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten after noon. After the few days you’ve had, you need to rest.”

“Did Edward ask you to look after me?” I ask without thinking.

Robin flinches. “No,” she says. “No. He barely even speaks to me, unless it’s about magical theory.”

My mind is too slow and sluggish for this conversation. She’s right; I should rest. “He doesn’t tend to be the sociable sort,” I say, gathering together the scraps of parchment scattered around me.

“He’s sociable enough with you.”

I’ve made another mistake. “We’re not dating,” I say.

“Sure…” says Robin sceptically. “Now rest.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

It is good to actually get a good night’s sleep for once. It’s somewhat less good when I wake up the next morning and realise my essay is due tomorrow, and I still haven’t finished the responses to the questions the headmaster passed onto me, and I haven’t written to my mother, and I don’t have time to do any of that right now because I need to wash and have breakfast before classes start.

Charles First-King. I close my eyes and focus on breathing for a few seconds, then step gracefully out of bed. That is, I would have stepped gracefully out of bed if my ankle had been working properly; it holds my weight, but only just, and I have to bite my lip to avoid crying out in pain and waking the others.

I grab my crutches and clean clothes and drag myself to the bathroom.

I make it down to breakfast not that much later than normal. Edward is already there; he’s saved me a seat and is skimming through the morning’s papers as usual. My step falters as I see them; I don’t want to know what they’re saying about me.

“Morning,” says Edward, looking up and waving.

“Morning. Do I want to know…” I gesture vaguely to the papers.

“There’s nothing about you. Not anywhere near the front pages, anyway. See – “

He passes the Morning Report over to me. Its headline, just as Edward said, has nothing to do with us: CONCERNS FOR THE HEALTH OF THE HIGH PRINCESS.

I sit down somewhat awkwardly and skim the article. High Princess Alexandra is suffering from severe morning sickness, apparently, and is temporarily withdrawing from public duties as a result. I shouldn’t feel relieved that she’s ill, but I’m still glad they’re talking about someone else today.

Edward doesn’t look relieved, though; he seems concerned himself, if anything. He doesn’t know the High Princess personally, though, so… I don’t bother asking; I know he’ll tell me sooner or later. I just enjoy the peace and the taste of my porridge.

“The way this is framed,” Edward says.

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of pregnant women get morning sickness. It’s a normal enough thing, and it goes away on its own. Yet… concerns for her health.”

I narrow my eyes, considering. “You’re saying… someone wants to make this seem more serious than it is? Who, and why?”

“Why is easy enough. She’s heir to the throne; her health and that of the Kingdom are deeply entwined. If something happens to her… there isn’t a replacement.”

“The King has three other children.”

“I presume you’re not suggesting a nine-year-old High Prince? And – “ he glances around to make sure no-one’s listening – “my dad has given me very unfavourable accounts of Stephen and Miranda.”

I swallow another mouthful of porridge and point out the obvious: “No disrespect to your father, but… are you sure that – “

“When it comes to who would make a good king, and who wouldn’t? His judgement is about as good as is possible. But without Alexandra, the succession is uncertain. And you’re a historian; you know what an uncertain succession means.”

I do, but that’s not what my mind focuses on. You’re a historian. Am I? I’m interested in history, even passionate about it. But I don’t know if I could or should devote my life to it. I don’t know if I want it to become who I am.

I don’t know who and what I want to be.

“Okay,” I say, moving on from those uncomfortable thoughts. “That’s why. What about who?”

Edward shrugs. “I wish I knew. I wish my dad knew. I could make guesses, but they shouldn’t be shared publicly. I’m trying to analyse all the papers, see the differences in their reporting. Different people have influence with different papers, so perhaps…”

“Let me know if I can help,” I say, and immediately regret it. Wasn’t it just an hour ago I nearly had a Malaina episode because of how much I have to do already and how overwhelming it all is? And now here I am volunteering for more.

Maybe there really is something wrong with me.

I muddle through the morning’s lessons, and spend lunch drafting and redrafting answers to the interview questions. I almost don’t want to send them now; maybe if I keep quiet the papers will continue talking about the High Princess’s health or the storms in the far north of the country and forget about me.

That hope is dashed when I receive another summons to the headmaster’s office. At least this time it’s not to come at once: three and thirty after noon, once lessons are finished for the day (the last period today is a free one) and bring my completed answers with me.

Which relies on my actually having completed answers. I skip lunch to work on them, which is a mistake: one missed meal might be okay, but two means my stomach is grumbling and growling all through Enchantments. I’m not used to hunger; the physical pain of it distracts me and I barely take in any of the lesson.

It finishes at three after noon, which gives me half an hour to do a final proofread of my answers. I’ve worked out the broad structure of what I want to say by this time, but I keep changing my mind about which words work best in particular contexts, and I have to recopy them every time the number of crossings-out on each page gets too much.

Still, by three and thirty I’m more or less satisfied. Then there’s just the agony of making it to his office. I thought the hunger would distract from that pain, but no: they’re both there, feeding into each other and making the whole worse.

I take a few seconds outside the office door to compose myself, become a calm and competent lawyer-in-training rather than an exhausted fifteen-year-old way out of her depth and holding herself together by a thread. I’m not sure it works, but I can at least pretend now.

Then I knock.

“Enter.”

I do so. Thankfully the second chair is empty this time, and I hobble over to sit on it. “I have the answers you requested here,” I say, passing the stack of papers across the table.

“Yes, so I see, thank you. Let’s have a look…”

He reads through my answers in silence. It feels as if I’ve handed in an assignment and he’s grading it, except this is an assignment for a class I haven’t met the prerequisites for and never wanted to take. I’ve always hated it when they just read through it without acknowledging you, making occasional noises of approval or confusion without context.

It makes you feel like you’re waiting for judgement from on high.

“You’re a good writer,” he says after too long, though it doesn’t sound like praise. “That’s unusual, for a magician.”

Because I was never supposed to be a magician. “Thank you,” I say.

“I do have a few concerns about the content, though. For instance, in your account of whatever happened between you and Lady Cavendish…”

It’s honestly not as bad as I thought; most of his suggestions are only minor corrections which I have no objections to making. I think perhaps after seeing Edward and I together he understands now that he won’t be able to convince me to abandon him. And even if he’s more concerned with the Academy’s reputation than with my interests, we’re able to find a way of phrasing things that helps both.

At least, I hope it does. By this point the hunger and tiredness is getting to the stage where I find myself involuntarily losing focus. My stomach grumbles loudly as I’m trying to explain why I’m choosing to describe the riot in the way I am.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“A little,” I say. “It’s okay, though, I’ll get something to eat as soon as we’re finished here. What was I saying?” Stars, I can’t remember my own arguments any more. Calm and competent, I tell myself. Not breaking down.

“You were talking about how you think your description of the riot gets across your emotional state at the time…”

“Yes, of course, thank you.”

It doesn’t go on too much longer, thank the stars. I’m still not particularly happy with telling my story to the entire country, but it’s much too late for that. And better that I give the true account than that it’s left to the rumour mill to weave gossip and lies about me.

That done, I need to get food and finish my essay and write to my mother. Food has to be the priority, though: I can’t work effectively when I’m this hungry. It’s four and ten after noon, though: the dining hall won’t open for nearly two hours. There’s the café, but that means trekking across the grounds.

I could just wait a couple of hours. I won’t starve to death in that short a time. But the thought of not doing anything to fix one of the few problems I can actually control is not a pleasant one. It’s not that far, maybe a hundred yards or so. I can manage that, can’t I?

It feels more like a hundred miles, but I drag myself step by painful step over to the café. The café that turns out to close at four after noon every evening. I’ve come all this way for nothing, and now I have to make it all the way back…

Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender.

I close my eyes and recite the list to myself. I am not going to have a Malaina episode, and I am not going to cry. That alone is a victory.

“Tallulah?”

I open my eyes. That’s Elsie’s voice. “Hi, Elsie.” My voice comes out flat and empty.

“I’m sorry – I saw you coming this way, and I knew the café was closed so I… I guess I just wanted to see if you were all right. I can go. If you want.”

I don’t know if I want company right now. If it were Edward, yes, but I don’t want anyone but him to see me in this state. I can’t quite bring myself to send her away, though. “No. No, stay.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t suppose you have food? I skipped lunch. And also dinner yesterday. And I’m starving.”

Elsie shakes her head. “I can’t carry food around with me; I’d eat it myself when I wasn’t supposed to. We could try going to the kitchens and asking?”

“You… think that would work?”

She shrugs. “Their job is to feed you. They might not have proper meals at this time, but there’s bound to be something there that you can eat.”

“That does also involve making it to the kitchens,” I add.

“You made it here, didn’t you? I’d offer to carry you, except…” She shrugs to indicate that she doesn’t have the strength to do it.

“Can I at least rest before going back?”

Elsie laughs. “Of course. Who do you think I am, Electra?”

“No, thank the stars.” I awkwardly sit down, leaning my crutches up against the wall.

Elsie sits beside me; I’m jealous of how easily she can collapse onto the grass. I never realised how precious it is just to be able to move normally. “I’m sorry about everything that’s happened,” she says. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. No-one should.”

I agree. But it doesn’t help to know that, because I do have to deal with it.

“I wondered if… if you’d like someone to talk to. I know you have Edward, and he’s a good friend to you – but – “

“If you’re about to say he’s a Blackthorn – “

“I wasn’t! Well, okay, I was, but not in a bad way. Just – he’s not normal. He doesn’t understand normal people.”

True enough, I suppose, despite my best efforts to teach him. “And you do,” I say.

Elsie laughs. “Look at me, Tallulah. Do I look special?”

There’s a bitter undertone to her voice that confuses me a little. I don’t reply.

“Please, Tallulah. Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how I can help.”

There are so many things wrong that I don’t know where to start. The food problem is obvious, and the injury problem. Those are short-term problems, though: I’ll get food soon and my ankle will heal eventually. Beyond that… “There’s just too much,” I say. “Too many things to deal with. Too many problems. And I don’t know…”

She waits patiently for me to finish my sentence.

“I don’t know what I want,” I admit. “I don’t know what I’m fighting for beyond just keeping afloat and getting by.”

“You’re fifteen, Tallulah. You shouldn’t have to have your whole life planned out. Just because Edward has known for his entire life he’ll be Siaril Royal someday doesn’t mean you need to decide now.”

“It’s not about that,” I say. “Not really. I did have a plan. I was going to be a lawyer like my dad, take over his firm one day. And then…”

Elsie says nothing. She’s watching me intently, but I don’t feel uncomfortable under her gaze.

“And then. Well. Falling happened. And ever since I’ve just been muddling through one day at a time.”

“I feel like I’ve been doing that my whole life,” Elsie says. “I suppose it would be different, if you had that certainty and lost it. Much harder. I’m sorry.”

I open my mouth to tell her not to apologise and realise that would be hypocritical of me. I really ought to stop compulsively apologising. “It’s okay most of the time. I’d be fine if it wasn’t for getting trampled half to death and then becoming headline news.”

Elsie snorts with supressed laughter. “I shouldn’t laugh. It’s serious. I doubt I’d have coped even half as well as you’re doing.”

It’s my time to laugh, this time bitterly. “Look at me. This is not what coping well looks like.”

She does look at me, and she shakes her head. “You’re still here,” she says. “Still making it through each day. That’s coping, as far as I’m concerned.”

Maybe she has a point. But there’s a part of me that’s wondering how much longer I can keep doing this. I push myself to my feet, immediately wishing I hadn’t. “Let’s go back,” I say.