Page 27 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Sixteen

Acloud of black smoke and an acrid stench greeted Mavery at the door. She pulled the neckline of her blouse over her nose.

“Sorry about that,” Alain coughed, wafting the smoke away from his face. “My latest experiment went a bit awry.”

His face and the front of his clothes—the same ones he’d worn yesterday—were covered in soot. Colorful splotches of plant material had joined the ink stains on his fingers. Tangled locks hung over eyes that were more deeply ringed with fatigue than Mavery remembered.

“Come in while I clean myself up.”

He kept the door open to air out the smoke. With the violet soundproofing ward spanning the threshold, anything they said inside the apartment would remain private. Dread clenched Mavery’s chest, but she tried her best to ignore the discomfort.

As Alain stepped toward the bathroom, she grasped him by the sleeve. He turned to her with bemused, slightly unfocused eyes. Either the alchemical fumes had gotten to him, or he was more exhausted than he was letting on.

“Alain, I wanted to apologize again for yesterday,” she said. “I shouldn’t have broken into your—”

“Apology accepted.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? I had a whole speech prepared and everything.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said with a smile.

Instead of returning it, she frowned. “So, all is forgiven?”

“You seem surprised.”

During the hours they’d been apart, she had expected his disappointment to have evolved into anger, then resentment.

“A bit,” she said quietly as she released his arm. “In my experience, people aren’t so easily forgiving.”

“Then I suppose I’m not like most people you know.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.”

The room had grown uncomfortably warm. It was little wonder, given the crackling fire on the other side of the room. Mavery’s eyes stung, though she was certain the lingering smoke was the reason for it.

Alain shrugged. “Honestly, I should have been more upfront. Had I told you an art studio was the only thing of interest beyond that door, I could have assuaged some of your curiosity.”

She gave him a small smile. “I’m not sure that would have helped. It’s not every day I get to see an artist’s private studio.”

“ ‘Artist’?” he said with a scoff and a wave of his hand. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s nothing more than a hobby—and not even a recent one. It’s been ages since I last picked up a paintbrush.”

“Where did you learn? Did they teach you that at Barcombe?”

“Gods, no,” he laughed. “Barcombe only taught me a bit of figure drawing to help with field research. Cameras are not only expensive and unwieldy, arcane interferences cause photographs to come out wrong, so we must record things the old-fashioned way. But beyond that, the wizarding community views the arts as a colossal waste of time. No, when I was first curious about painting, I found a book on the basics and taught myself.”

Though learning this left Mavery a bit dispirited, she laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Of course you learned how to paint from a book.”

Alain looked around the room. Though they had returned most of the library books, hundreds upon hundreds of his own remained.

Mavery had just barely started implementing her new cataloging system, so many of those books were pushed against the walls in unorganized stacks.

At least they no longer posed a tripping hazard.

“I see your point,” he said. “Speaking of books, I still haven’t started peer reviewing any of the ones Kazamin gave me.”

Mavery stifled a groan. It seemed nothing would take this man’s mind off work.

“Are you sure you don’t need a break first?” she asked. “Did you get any sleep after I left yesterday?”

“Er…a bit, off and on. But I promise this project will be well worth the sacrifice.”

“Worth running yourself ragged, you mean.”

“I won’t have to for much longer. Just a few more days, and I’ll have this thing cracked.”

He reached for her shoulder, then glanced at his stained fingers and, seeming to think better of it, dropped his hand.

With each passing day, Alain’s face became a little more gaunt, his beard a little more unkempt, the dark circles around his eyes a little more pronounced.

But he assured Mavery that she had nothing to worry about, that his mysterious project—which he only worked on when she wasn’t around—was inching ever closer to completion.

And so, she pushed her concerns aside and focused on her own project.

On a bitterly cold Siddisday morning, Mavery arrived to find the door wide open. Alain was in the kitchen, balancing on a chair and securing a sapphire blue bundle of feygrass to one of the rafters.

“You went shopping without me?” Mavery demanded.

Alain yelped, clinging to the rafter with one hand. Once he’d stabilized himself, he grumbled, “I would have appreciated a warning knock—or a simple ‘good morning,’ for that matter.”

Mavery gave the doorframe a quick rap. “Good morning. I thought you said supply runs would be my job from now on.”

“I did, but in this instance, I only needed feygrass.”

“Still, I could’ve stopped by Enid’s shop on my way over, saved you the trouble.”

“Oh, I didn’t go to the Cracked Pestle. Now that I know of Enid’s Brass Dragon ties, I can’t in good conscience associate with a criminal, much less patronize her shop, can I?”

Mavery’s stomach lurched. She was thankful he was too preoccupied with tying a knot to notice her mouth hanging open.

He sighed. “Compared to Enid’s prices, the other apothecaries charge a small fortune. I suppose crime does pay. Pity.” He gave the knot a final tug, then hopped down from the chair. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking a little peaky.”

“I’m fine.” She glanced away. “Just a bit chilled from the walk over, is all.”

“Good thing I restocked on feygrass. If you need me to brew you a cup, just say the word. But, for now, out with you! The project’s not quite finished, but you’ve seen quite enough.

” Alain shooed her into the sitting room, then closed the kitchen door behind them.

“On a similar note, yesterday you said that you had something to show me.”

Mavery’s stomach performed another leap.

She’d completely forgotten about her plan to show him the catalog.

She retrieved the book from her chair, and her knuckles paled as she gripped its leather cover.

Like Alain’s project, this one was nowhere near ready; she had hundreds of books left to catalog, and her system would likely need some revising.

But a glint in Alain’s eyes, like that of a child anticipating an Yvernal gift, compelled her to hand over the book.

When he turned to the key on the first page, she rushed to his side, then lingered over his shoulder as she quickly explained the shorthand she’d devised: a string of letters, numbers, and symbols representing each book’s author, publication date, subject matter, and location on Alain’s shelves.

“I wanted this to be more than a simple list of every book you own,” she said quickly. “With a single line of writing, you’ll know what each book is about, and where to find it.”

“May I?”

Mavery nodded. She chewed a hangnail while she watched him test her system. He turned to a random page, picked a book from the list, then located it on the shelf. The process took him not even half a minute.

“This is your own invention?”

She nodded slowly.

He grinned. “This is brilliant!”

She released a held breath before returning his smile.

“Finding a single book used to take me the better part of an hour, assuming I didn’t grow so frustrated, I gave up altogether. Where did you come up with this idea?”

“Previous employment. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Her shorthand had been adapted from the Brass Dragons’ code for marking buildings—the same one she’d used to confirm the Crackled Pestle’s affiliation with the guild.

A handful of letters and symbols could denote a wealth of information: whose protection the building was under, the type of loot inside, the locations of weak points to exploit during break-ins.

Of course, she couldn’t tell Alain any of that.

“In any case, this is excellent work.” He handed back the catalog. “It’s a bit different than what the University’s library uses, but every arcanist devises their own system.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “If I’m an arcanist, then you’re a master painter.”

Arcanists were a step above librarians. Apart from cataloging books and spells, they would occasionally pen translations or delve into ruins to recover ancient tomes. Most importantly, they controlled what knowledge was housed within their libraries—and who was granted access to them.

“Fair enough,” Alain said. “Had you ever considered becoming one?”

Mavery nodded. “It was why I enrolled at Atterdell in the first place.”

Becoming an arcanist was more straightforward than becoming a wizard—it required only four years of university, then sitting a certification exam—but it was by no means easier.

Some wizards hired arcanists to manage their private libraries, but becoming a university’s arcanist was far more prestigious.

Not to mention, far more lucrative. While the University of Leyport’s library boasted three arcanists, that was the exception to the rule; most wizarding schools had only one.

Such positions were so rare, becoming a wizard had once been Mavery’s backup plan, as ridiculous as that seemed in hindsight.

“You attended Atterdell for arcanist studies? No wonder you—”

He blanched as the two of them locked eyes. The unspoken truth hung heavily in the air between them. It had been nearly three weeks since Mavery had come across the letter from Atterdell. And yet, Alain still hadn’t mentioned it.

Since then, she’d felt as though she were balancing on the edge of a blade, and every revelation about her past nudged her a bit further from the center.

He’d kept her around despite her lack of credentials, her vague ties to the Brass Dragons, her invasion of his private room.

She wanted to know why, even if it meant revealing that she’d violated his privacy—again.

Even if it delivered the final push that tipped her over the edge.

“Go on,” she said, clutching the catalog to her chest. “Say it.”

“Er…say what?”

She sighed. “I’m a dropout. There’s no use hiding it; you’ve known for weeks now. I found your letters. Not just the one from Atterdell, but the one from the High—”

“Good.”

She blinked at him. “Wait, what?”

“It never occurred to you that I wanted you to find those letters?”

It had struck her as odd that he’d left them in an unlocked drawer after he’d so carefully hidden everything else. Her breath hitched as she realized he’d intentionally led the ley line to his desk, to make the letters easier to spot.

“Why?” she asked.

Alain lowered his head. “I wanted to tell you that you were working for a wizard who had tarnished his reputation so tremendously, he was on the verge of losing his rank. But when I couldn’t find the words, I decided to let those letters speak for me.

You’d already proven the inquisitive sort.

I knew if I left you to your own devices, you would discover them. ”

“But that doesn’t explain the Atterdell letter. Why have you kept me around, knowing full well I don’t have an education?”

“Because you’re a Senser, of course! I would be a fool to turn you away.

And, Senser or not, you’ve already proven your worth.

” He pointed at the catalog, then smiled wryly.

“Besides, that letter only confirmed what I’d already suspected from your first day of work: that you had, at most, a first-year education.

Believe me, no university graduate ever forgets Venetum’s First Principle.

“Furthermore, I doubted your family name was actually Reynard. It seems you’re unfamiliar with the Dauphinian folktale, Reynard the Three-Tailed Trickster, else you would’ve chosen a less obvious alias.”

“If you knew all along, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I assumed you would eventually come forward on your own.” Alain shrugged. “And, well, here we are.”

Mavery gazed at her feet. “Here we are.”

For a moment, she’d feared that this would be the end of everything: steady wages for work that she’d grown proud of, afternoon teas that had become far more enjoyable, and—above all else—

Alain cleared his throat, jostling her from her thoughts.

“Well, to return to what we were saying: you may not be an arcanist officially, but I’ll consider you one in my book, if you’ll pardon the play on words.”

Without thinking, she nudged him in the ribs.

“Ouch!” he cried, then paired it with a chuckle.

“Careful. Make one too many puns, and this arcanist will start tossing your books out the window—or into the fireplace.”

“Yes, you’re definitely an arcanist.” He sighed, rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “You’ve held the title for not even a minute, and already you’re drunk with power.”

They shared a laugh, though for Mavery the moment of levity was short-lived.

Alain didn’t care that she wasn’t a university graduate.

He didn’t even seem to care that she’d lied about it.

But one detail about her past still remained a secret, and if it ever came to light, she doubted he would be so forgiving.

I can’t in good conscience associate with a criminal.

If he thought that of Enid, someone he’d known for years, he’d certainly think that of someone he’d known for only a month.

And wasn’t Mavery’s relationship with him equally transactional in nature?

She was nothing more than a commodity to him.

He only kept her around because she was a Senser with a knack for organizing books.

She should have left the day she discovered those letters and learned that Alain had begun looking into her past. Deep down, she knew this man had nothing worth stealing; the only thing keeping her here was a foolish belief that she could make this arrangement last in the long term.

The longer she stayed, the greater the odds he would learn what kind of person she truly was.

She needed to cut her losses and leave before he made that decision for her.