Page 18 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Ten

Mavery gasped when the front door opened.

For the first time in weeks, a jolt of panic ran up her spine.

Once she realized the intrusion was only Alain, returning from his errands, she chided herself for sitting with her back to the door—a habit the Brass Dragons had drilled out of her years ago.

She could only assume she’d become so accustomed to playing the role of a wizard’s assistant, her old instincts were starting to slip.

Alain entered the room and shrugged off his coat.

“Back from running errands?” Mavery asked, mustering a cheerful tone.

“Errands? Oh, right. Fine. They were fine.” He tossed his coat in the direction of his desk chair. It missed by at least a foot, but Alain didn’t seem to notice. “I’m going to put the kettle on.”

He lumbered across the room and into the kitchen while Mavery continued working. She straightened a stack of library books and pushed them aside. She was reaching for the next stack when she heard a crash, followed by a yelp.

“Everything all right in there?” she called.

When Alain failed to reply, she hoisted herself from her chair and headed toward the kitchen. She opened the door to find him on hands and knees, gathering the pieces of a shattered teacup.

“Here, let me help you,” she said.

With a circular gesture, she performed a basic mending spell.

The shards of porcelain scattered across the floor and clustered together, reforming a teacup on Alain’s palm, though the cracks rendered it useless.

Only an innate mender could flawlessly repair a broken object, but at least Alain no longer needed to continue searching for the pieces by hand. He tossed the cup in the garbage bin.

“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to do that in the first place.”

Something pattered against the stone tiles. Mavery looked down to find blood dripping from Alain’s right hand.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “I also know some healing spells. I can—”

“No, no, you’ve done plenty already.” He raised his hand, examined it. “Besides, it’s only a small cut. It should heal in no time.”

He turned and grabbed a tea towel to stanch the bleeding. Even with his back to her, she sensed something was different about him—apart from his odd behavior—but she couldn’t place it.

Then he turned around again.

His dark hair was cropped to shoulder length and slicked back with a bit of pomade.

His beard, though still full, was neatly trimmed.

With that distracting tangle of hair no longer in the way, she recognized for the first time his high cheekbones, prominent yet slender nose, slightly bowed upper lip, full lower lip…

Alain’s face flushed, and he averted his gaze.

Mavery’s blood ran cold upon realizing she’d been staring at him.

He had a handsome face, objectively speaking, but she wasn’t about to lose her mind over it.

If she’d done that with every attractive mark, her thieving career would have been a decidedly short one.

“I know it’s a bit different than you’re used to seeing,” he said, gesturing at his shortened beard. “Er, what do you think?”

She raised her eyebrows. He wanted her opinion on this sort of thing?

“It suits you,” she said, and it was more than a half-truth. “You’re far too young for the ‘grizzled old hermit’ look.”

He laughed, but the sound of it rang hollow.

The tea kettle whistled. He removed it from the stove, then carried it toward the teapot on the dining table.

The towel wrapped around his hand was now saturated with blood, making his grip clumsy.

Scalding water sloshed out the kettle’s spout and onto the floor, and he barely dodged getting burned.

Mavery wrenched the kettle from his hand.

“You don’t…” He paused, placed his uninjured hand over his mouth to stifle what was halfway between a belch and a hiccup. “You don’t have to do that.”

“If you want to risk maiming yourself further, be my guest.”

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Alain slumped into the closest chair. Mavery took over the tea preparations. She likely poured the hot water too forcefully over the delicate leaves, but it was better than having him bleed over everything.

Once the tea was steeping, she sat across from him, took his hand, and removed the bloody rag. The cut was more severe than she’d realized: a two-inch gash along his index finger. And she was now close enough to catch a whiff of wine. That explained his sudden bout of clumsiness.

“Let me take care of this,” she said.

He shrugged. “If you must…”

Whether he was versed in healing magic didn’t matter in this case; he couldn’t heal himself.

He could likely recall the academic term for this phenomenon—Some-Dead-Wizard’s Law of Transference, or something along those lines—but she knew from practical experience that healing was always an external transfer of magic.

You could give a bit of yours to heal another person, and vice versa, but trying to heal yourself would result in the magic canceling itself out.

With one hand, she held his, keeping it still.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to focus her arcana, which she directed toward her other hand.

Her fingertips trailed along the length of his cut, leaving behind a thin white line that would fade in a few hours.

Had Mavery been an innate Soudremancer, she would have left no trace of the injury.

And she likely would have felt nothing from this simple spell—not even the touch of lightheadedness it had inflicted upon her.

She wasn’t sure why she’d offered to mend Alain’s cup, heal his wound. She needed to earn his trust, but she didn’t have to go to these lengths for it. Helping him simply felt like the right thing to do, she supposed.

She was still holding his hand; he must have not realized the spell was complete.

His hand was relaxed, his fingers were curled slightly around hers.

He had the soft skin and lack of calluses of someone who had never done a day’s worth of physical labor.

His fingertips were ink-stained, which was equally unsurprising.

But she was surprised to find that his nails were as ragged as her own.

A fellow nail-biter, though a more discreet one.

During these past weeks, she’d never once caught him in the act.

She was staring again, though at least now it was only at his hand.

And at least now she could use her healing spell as an excuse.

She looked up to find him watching her, gaze soft and lips slightly parted.

Upon meeting each other’s eyes, he flinched and glanced away at the same time she looked down and dropped his hand.

“Well…I’m no healer,” she said, “but I think you’ll live to see another day.”

She slowly peered up at him as he raised his hand and assessed her work. Judging by his slight nod, she’d done well enough. He used the clean end of the tea towel to wipe away the remaining blood.

“You never trained as one?”

“Me?” she laughed. “Gods, no, I barely attended temple for the sermons. I learned a few healing spells during my…er, my studies.”

“Really? If memory serves, Soudremancy isn’t taught at the universities.”

She swore internally as she remembered, all too late, one of the stipulations of the First Reforms. For over a thousand years, since the establishment of the High Council and the first wizarding universities, only the churches had been permitted to teach the healing arts.

“I didn’t mean taking classes,” she said. “I came across a textbook and taught myself the basics.”

“You happened to ‘come across’ a Soudremancy textbook?”

One of the first times she’d landed herself in an infirmary, she’d swiped a primer from the trainee who’d been assigned to her.

Excerpts from that book had remained in her Compendium for so long, the pages were tattered, the ink faded.

But it was too valuable to discard; even those basic, near-illegible spells had helped her allies more times than she could count.

And now, she’d just helped the man sitting across from her, though she doubted “ally” would be the appropriate word in his case.

She shrugged. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Alain threw her a skeptical look, but he said nothing as he poured himself a cup of tea. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He offered Mavery a cup as well. It was the color of fresh butter and, though it smelled like licorice, had an intensely bitter taste. Somehow, he managed to drink it without even a pinch of sugar.

“Regardless of where you learned Soudremancy,” he said, “I appreciate it all the same. Can you Sense that School as well?”

She nodded. “The aura is light teal, and there’s always an herbal scent, though it’s different every time. Just now, it smelled like rosemary, but sometimes it’s juniper, mint, something like that.”

He took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted down what she’d said.

He had gotten into the habit of carrying it around at all times to record Mavery’s comments on the spot.

And she had gotten into the habit of delivering those comments, though Alain hadn’t yet told her the purpose for all his note-taking.

He slipped the notebook back in his pocket. She took another sip of tea and winced.

“You’re not partial to taxwort, I take it,” he said.

“Is that what this is? I’ve only ever used it to scrub the rust off iron.”

“The root, yes, but the leaf is far gentler. Helps with digestion.” He lifted his cup to his mouth. “Among other, er, ailments…”

Drunkenness, she assumed. She cracked a smile that she swiftly hid behind her teacup.

“Don’t feel obligated to drink it,” he said. “I’ll have to find a better way to thank you for cleaning up my messes.”

“You can start with gold and jewels.” He laughed, and she played it off with a shrug. “What can I say? I’m a simple woman.”

“You, ‘simple’?” He leaned forward, rested his chin on his freshly healed hand. “No, I highly doubt that.”

If he wasn’t half-drunk, she would have assumed he was searching for a crack in her composure, a rift from which he could prise free her lies. He was studying her so intently, warmth began to creep up her neck. She choked down a mouthful of taxwort tea, simply for the sake of distraction.

“Anyway,” she said, bitterness lingering on her tongue, “don’t get used to the complimentary spells. I only offered because you seemed like you had a lot on your mind. I mean, something must be amiss when a wizard forgets to use magic.”

He leaned back. “You’re right, I do have a lot on my mind.

After I left the barber, I ran into my supervisor.

” Sipping his tea, his gaze drifted to a far corner of the room.

“We had lunch, and he asked me to meet him on campus next week to discuss how my research is progressing. Much as I wanted to decline, I’m in no position to. ”

“How long has it been since you last visited campus?” It seemed an innocent enough question; she couldn’t reveal that she knew more than she was supposed to.

“Nearly a year. You’ll come with me, I hope?”

“Should I?”

“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to return to the academic world? I can’t think of a better way than by visiting the University.”

Mavery chewed her lip. Continuing her ruse for another week thrilled her almost as much as the prospect of meeting Alain’s colleagues.

The last thing she needed was for more wizards—more witnesses—to know her name, her face.

But this could also be an opportunity. She hadn’t found any valuables in his apartment, but there were bound to be plenty at the University.

“I won’t pressure you,” he said, “but do keep in mind that our current arrangement is a tad unconventional. Once I return from my sabbatical, we’ll be expected to work on campus.”

“I thought assistants typically worked out of wizards’…er, towers.”

“Not when those wizards are also professors. Besides, the work you’re doing now, while helpful, is glorified housekeeping. There’s plenty more you can do at the University: grade exams, help facilitate my lectures, perhaps even deliver them yourself when my other duties pull me elsewhere…”

He still thought she was qualified for all that?

He could have been bluffing, but no, his tone was completely earnest. Not only did she find that a bit flattering—she wasn’t above admitting it—here he was, making plans for months from now, unaware that she would be gone in a matter of days.

Weeks, at most. It was almost enough to make her feel guilty.

Almost.

As he continued to speak, she realized that Alain could have ordered her to accompany him. It would have been well within his right as her employer. Instead, he was offering her a choice.

Mavery could sort his books, mend his drinkware, heal his injuries every day for weeks on end. But if she wanted to earn his trust, this was how she would do it.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”