A far wilder magic, p.2
A Far Wilder Magic, page 2
Of course he’d considered it before then. The world is determined to remind him that the son of Banvish immigrants will never be a real alchemist. But he’d never considered it more than in that moment, when he could see all the new gray shot through his mother’s hair.
Sometimes, he thinks it’d be easier to take a job anywhere, doing anything, so that his family wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. Ever since Dad’s accident, Wes has watched Mam come home from her extra shifts and soak her hands in hot paraffin wax every night. He’s watched his youngest sister, Edie, get thinner and his oldest sister, Mad, grow harder. Most nights, he lies awake wondering what’s wrong with him: why he can’t retain more than half of what he reads, why he can’t seem to translate unfamiliar words on the page into meaning, why no amount of natural talent or passion can compensate for his “limitations” in his teachers’ eyes. It all makes him sick with anger and worry and self-loathing.
Wes knows he possesses some innate magic, a type of enchantment more banal than alchemy. When he speaks, people listen. And while that gift has landed him all his apprenticeships, it’s done nothing to help him keep them. Once he fails a single written exam, he can see the vindication in his instructors’ eyes, like they’ve been waiting for him to confirm their suspicions. They always say the same thing: I should’ve known better than to take a chance on you. It’s obvious what they mean by that gritted-out “you,” even if they never come out and say it. Banvishman.
There are no more well-connected alchemists left in the Dunway metropolitan area whose apprenticeships he hasn’t already flunked out of—or else advertise NO BANVISH NEED APPLY. None except for Evelyn Welty, who makes her home in a town so small, it isn’t even on the map.
Nerves and car sickness send his stomach roiling. He rolls down the window and tips his face toward the wind. Overhead, the sky sprawls so blue and wide open, he thinks it may drown him if he breathes in too deep. In the city, everything is solid gray: smog and concrete and the flat slate of the bay. But here, the landscape changes quicker than he can track it. Along the coast, jagged bluffs wear coats of prickly scrubs and blue wildflowers. Just beyond it, evergreen trees bleed into towering redwoods. Wes can’t help thinking the firs’ upturned branches look like middle fingers.
When he told the neighbors where he was going, they offered the same brand of platitudes. Small town! Not much going on there! or Well, at least the air will be clean. Of all the well-intentioned comments he got, the promise of clean air is definitely the biggest lie. There’s no pollution, sure, but it tastes like salt—and worse, with the hundreds of seals lounging on the sand, it reeks of sunbaked seaweed and rotting fish.
So much for provincial charm.
It occurs to him that the wind may ruin his hair, which he carefully slicked back this morning with the patient coaching of his sisters. He closes the window again and checks his reflection. Still intact, mercifully. Christine and Colleen practically welded it into place with God knows how many dollops of gel. Nothing, not even a single misplaced hair, can ruin his shot at a perfect first impression.
“So, Hohn,” Wes says, “do you find yourself out this way often?”
“When I was a younger man, I did. They’ve got the best foxhunting in the country. In fact, if rumor holds true, Wickdon’s hosting the hunt in the next few weeks. It’ll be first time that’s happened since I was your age.”
Most of the country goes wild for the hunt, as Hohn put it. Wes doesn’t consider himself a particularly devout practitioner of the Sumic faith, but the whole concept of the Halfmoon Hunt is a little sacrilegious even for his loose morals.
In Sumic tradition, it’s said that God carved demiurges from his own flesh. They’re his divinity incarnate and, as such, deserve both fear and respect. Mam buries their statues in potted plants and lovingly mounts their icons on the walls. Sometimes, she’ll mutter a prayer to them if she’s lost something, or ask them to put in a good word with God since he’s apparently too busy to field requests himself. Katharists would call that kind of reverence idolatry at best and heresy at worst. It’s the same scorn that draws them to immigrant neighborhoods to throw stones through Sumic churches’ stained-glass windows.
Wes can’t be sure what Hohn thinks or which version of God, if any, he worships. He doesn’t want to be thrown out of the cab yet, so he says, “Is that right?”
“There’s not much other reason to come here, if I’m honest.” In the mirror, Wes catches Hohn’s appraising look. “I don’t mean any offense, son, but you don’t look like the foxhunting type. What brings you here?”
“None taken. I’m an alchemist.” Hohn makes an appreciative noise. “Evelyn Welty’s apprentice, actually,” Wes adds.
It’s only a lie by omission. Master Welty never exactly responded to his letter, but he knows she’s a busy woman. Every apprenticeship he’s landed, he’s landed by pleading his case in person. Even though he’s terrified his charm has run dry, he thinks he can manage it one last time.
“Evelyn Welty, eh? Best of luck to you.”
From his understanding, he’ll need it. “Thanks.”
He’s heard all the rumors by now. None of her students make it longer than two weeks. Ghosts prowl the halls of Welty Manor at night. Evelyn subsists on nothing but photosynthesis. Etcetera. In his experience, all alchemists are a little odd. Technically, anyone can perform alchemy, but it takes an obsessive kind of person to want to. They spend years dissecting arcane texts and cramming their heads full of the chemical composition of thousands of objects. To take something apart, you have to know exactly how it’s made. Or maybe it’s the sulfuric fumes that eventually drive all of them mad.
In any case, it’s nothing he can’t handle. If it must be, it will be a war of attrition. Wes has never lost a battle of wills.
At last, they arrive in civilization. Nestled in the curve of a valley, Wickdon is just as quaint as promised. Light from jewel-cased streetlamps glazes the cobblestones, and colorful cottage homes and storefronts line every block. Shop windows strung with lights glow softly through the mist, illuminating tempting displays of baked goods, produce, and more taxidermy and ammunition than a war museum. What strikes him most is the complete lack of alchemy labs. In Dunway, you can find at least two per block: jewelers peddling enchanted rings, restaurants serving food that promises a variety of psychological effects, workshops filled with metalworkers who produce the strong, lightweight steel that makes New Albion’s military so formidable.
As the car rumbles through the town center, people crack open their front doors and draw back their curtains to watch it pass. A pretty young woman sweeping the street in front of her shop meets his eyes. On reflex, he breaks into a wide, easy grin. She turns away from him as if she didn’t see him at all. Wes presses his face miserably to the glass, which stings with a cold as bitter as the rejection. It unsettles him more than he cares to admit. Back home, people know him. They like him. Everybody likes him.
At least they did before this streak of failures.
Although he keeps expecting to stop at one of the charming, brightly painted homes along the way, they continue down the main drag toward the edge of town. The warm lamplight grows sparser, and the wheels jolt sharply as the car rattles onto a dirt road. Wes looks out the back window, where Wickdon glimmers through the exhaust.
“Say, where are we going?”
“Welty Manor. Evelyn lives a bit out of the way.”
They follow the switchbacking road into the mountains, the engine whining in protest as they ascend. Wes finds the courage to look out over the town in the distance and the endless expanse of the ocean beyond it. The water has darkened to a steely gray, streaked with sunlight the color of rust. The redwoods soon blot out the view, and after driving a few nauseatingly winding miles beneath their looming height, the car creaks to a halt in front of a lonely redbrick house.
Thick sheets of ivy climb the siding, and flowering weeds spill from the garden beds like beer overflowing from a tap. The splintered wooden gate lists on its hinges, less a welcome than a plea for help. Welty Manor looks like the kind of place people weren’t meant to live—the kind of place nature clearly wants back.
Wes climbs out of the cab and peers up at the lamp burning in the second-story window. It’s far colder than it was when he left Dunway this morning—way too cold for it to be natural, even with the sea air and the altitude. And it’s too still, too quiet. Already, he misses the noise of Dunway. The constant drone of traffic and the soft tread of their upstairs neighbors’ footsteps. His mother puttering in the kitchen and his sisters bickering in their room. Here, the only sound is the distant cawing of some bird he can’t name.
Before he lets himself get too despondent over his new home, Wes helps Hohn unload his things from the trunk. All his worldly possessions fit into three scuffed suitcases and a satchel with a frayed strap.
“Need help getting inside?” Hohn asks.
“Oh, no. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be just fine on my own.”
Hohn fixes him with a skeptical look, then fishes a card from his breast pocket and hands it to him. Hohn’s name and telephone number are printed on the front in faded ink, as if it’s been in his jacket for years. “If you need a ride again…”
“I know who to call. Thank you, sir.”
Hohn claps him on the shoulder and squeezes. It’s so fatherly, Wes has to swallow a sudden pang of grief. “Alright, then. Good luck.”
With a tip of his hat, Hohn climbs back into the cab and backs it out of the driveway. Darkness slithers into the empty space left by the headlights, and as it enfolds him, Wes feels as though someone is watching him. His gaze anxiously drifts toward the upstairs window, where a ghostly silhouette flickers in what looks to be firelight.
Get yourself together, Winters.
He climbs the groaning porch stairs until he is face-to-face with the red front door. He’s never been so nervous in his entire life—but then, he’s never had so much to lose. For good measure, he smooths back his hair and smiles at his reflection in the window until the sweaty look of desperation slides off his face. Everything is in place. He’s rehearsed his speech a thousand times. He’s ready. He broadens his chest, raps on the door, and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Wind gusts through the veranda and shreds through his threadbare coat like it’s nothing. It’s cold as hell out here, and the longer he stands here shivering, the more convinced he is that there’s something lurking at the tree line. The way the dead leaves rattle in the yard sounds too much like whispering for his taste. He hears his name, hissed over and over again.
Weston, Weston, Weston.
“Please answer,” he mutters. “Please, please, please.”
But no one is coming. Maybe Evelyn isn’t home. No, that can’t be right. The upstairs light is on. Maybe she didn’t hear him. Yes, that must be it. She didn’t hear him.
He knocks again, and again, the seconds stretch eternal. What if she never answers the door? What if she moved? What if she’s dead, rotting beside that dully burning lamp? He’s been so single-mindedly determined, it never occurred to him that he could fail. This scheme was always a gamble—one he now realizes may leave him stranded and alone. The thought is so upsetting, so humiliating, he pounds more urgently on the door. This time, he hears footsteps on the staircase.
Finally.
The door swings open, and his breath leaves him in a rush. There is a girl standing in the threshold. In the dim porchlight, she looks like something out of a poem he read in school before he dropped out—or like one of the aos sí from his mother’s stories. As his eyes adjust, her face comes into view blink by blink. Her hair, unbound and golden. Her skin, white as cream. Wes braces himself for the inevitable ache of love.
But nothing comes. On closer inspection, the girl is far less beautiful and far more severe than he expected. Not to mention incredibly unfashionable with her long hair and longer hemline, if his sisters’ catalogs are to be believed. She regards him with thin, downturned lips and heavy eyelids, like he is the most loathsome, unimpressive thing to ever crawl onto her property.
“Can I help you?” Her voice is as flat and cold as her stare.
“Are you … Are you Evelyn Welty?”
“No.” The word plunks mortifyingly between them.
Of course she isn’t Evelyn Welty. She looks no older than him. He barrels onward. “Is she at home? My name is Weston Winters, and—”
“I know what you’re here for, Mr. Winters.” Judging by her tone, she must assume he’s here to sell her snake oil. “My mother is away on a research trip. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
It’s so final, so bleak, he’s still reeling by the time she begins to close the door. “Wait!”
She leaves the door cracked open barely an inch, and even from here, he can see the tension coiling in her shoulders. He still hasn’t overcome his panic, but he can make this work. While Evelyn’s absence is a setback he didn’t anticipate, he can figure it out once he’s settled. His very last shot at an apprenticeship rests in her daughter’s hands, and by the look of her, she doesn’t care a whit what he wants or what happens to him. She gives him nothing to work with. No smile, no warmth. She only stares at him blankly with eyes the color of whiskey. They snatch every coherent thought from his mind.
“So.” He grasps for something, anything, to keep her talking. “What do you think I’m here for?”
“You’re here to ask for an apprenticeship.”
“Well, uh … Yes, actually. I wrote to her a few weeks ago, but she never responded.”
“Then maybe you should learn to read between the lines.”
“If you’d just let me explain—”
“I understand the situation already. You think you’re deserving enough that your own lack of planning is no barrier to you getting what you want.”
“That’s not…!” Wes takes a deep breath. No good will come of losing his composure. “I think I’ve given you entirely the wrong impression. Let me start over.”
She says nothing but doesn’t move, which he decides to take as encouragement.
“I want to be a senator.” He pauses, trying to gauge her response. She is, however, still disconcertingly stoic. “My best shot of making it is through an apprenticeship. My family doesn’t have any money, and I had to drop out of school, so there’s no way I’m getting into a university unless it’s with a letter of recommendation.”
Only alchemists can become politicians. It’s not a law, really, but it may as well be. Although New Albion fought for its independence as a democratic nation almost 150 years ago, the aristocracy lives on in disguise. He can’t think of a single politician elected in the last ten years who isn’t a university-minted alchemist with a Katharist pedigree and a network of other wealthy, overeducated people. As a Banvishman, he’ll never have the pedigree, even if he converts, but he can claw his way to electability otherwise.
“There are plenty of alchemists in the city,” she says. “You didn’t need to come so far.”
There’s no point in asking how she knows he’s from the city. His accent always gives him away. “Every alchemist in the city has turned me down.” It hurts to admit it, but he does. “Your mother is my last chance. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“If you’ve already failed out of another apprenticeship, you won’t survive this one. My mother won’t tolerate mediocrity.”
“I’ll work harder than any student she’s ever had. I swear it.”
“Mr. Winters.” Her voice is a closing door.
Think, Winters. Damn it, think. This is his chance. His only chance. Since this girl clearly doesn’t go in for pity, he doubts it’ll do him any good to give her the sob story about wanting to fight the injustice and corruption in their government. So he’ll do what he does best. Not even she can be immune to charm.
He leans against the doorframe, and in his most seductive voice, he says, “Maybe we could talk more inside? You must be lonely out here by yourself, and I’ve come an awfully long way…”
The door slams inches from his nose.
“What the hell? You can’t just…!”
But she did. Wes threads his hands into his hair and pulls until it all comes loose from the gel. What does his appearance matter now? Everything he owns is scattered in the driveway. His savings are running thin, and while Mam gave him some money as a goodbye present, he can’t bring himself to touch it. She’s sacrificed too much already—and all for him to find out Evelyn Welty isn’t even here.
No, he can’t go home. He’ll die of shame.
Mustering up the very last of his dignity, Wes stalks off the porch to collect his things. Three suitcases. One satchel. Two hands. Five miles back to town. No matter how he does the math, it’s not looking good. As thunder rolls in the distance, he searches deep inside himself for the optimism his oldest sister, Mad, often mocks him for.
Spoiled, she calls him. Idealistic. Like that’s a bad thing.
For a moment, he’s not in the middle of nowhere, shaking with cold and frustration. He’s back in Dunway, sitting with Mad on the fire escape while she burns through her third cigarette.
Last night, they said their grim goodbyes. He remembers thinking he didn’t really recognize her anymore. She sheared all her hair off a few weeks ago, trying too hard to turn herself into one of those fashionable girls with their bobbed hair and drop-waist dresses. She smelled like smoke and liquor from her late shift at the bar, and she was obviously pissed off at him again, even if she wouldn’t admit it. The little things tipped him off. The boxer’s hunch of her shoulders, the chain smoking, the mean glint in her eyes when she finally deigned to look at him.
He hates it—hates that his own sister thinks he’s selfish, that this apprenticeship will end up like all the others, that he’s doing this only to avoid his responsibilities. But ever since Dad died, it’s been like this. Resenting each other more than they love each other. He doesn’t know how they got here. All he knows is that they were talking, and then they were yelling—as much as you can yell in whispers, anyway. Edie was asleep on the other side of the wall, and neither of them wanted to go through the whole bedtime ritual again.
