Page 10 of By Mistake

Andrus was going to throw up. Right before he passed out.

He stared at the piece of expensive paper on his kitchen counter like it was a hissing snake. Why in the names of all the gods was he being invited to a royal ball . Why? Why? Why?

His affluent 'peers' had lost his family's information decades ago.

After his great grandfather was hanged for murder—a murder he didn't commit—they'd become pariahs.

As the years and then decades passed, that ostracization had only gotten worse.

He'd never been invited to a tea party as a boy, when such things were common so young people could get to know one another.

His parents had never invited anyone over either, except for some shopkeeps and market vendors his mother had been friendly with who'd come for tea in the kitchen every once in a while.

Was this Farthing's doing? What could he possibly be scheming that required forcing him to attend a royal ball?

That didn't seem likely, though. Farthing, to the best of his knowledge, wasn't so close to anyone in the royal family that he could ask the royal offices to send the great grandson of the most hated man in history an invitation.

Oresti? He wasn't high enough in society to make that kind of request; he'd probably try to get an invitation for himself.

Whatever, he didn't have time to sit here stressing about this.

The invitation actually gave him less time.

He hadn't planned on doing the spell until next week, after a bit more time to practice, to be as certain as he could that he was doing everything correctly.

The ball was barely two weeks away, at the very end of the month.

On the surface, it was just the rich, fancy version of the winter solstice festivities that would overtake the rest of Esaria.

They heralded the full arrival of winter, a last grand fête before the terrible snow and ice struck, frigid temperatures that kept everyone inside for the most part.

Lords and ladies would arrive to the ball in their best winter garb, the finest wools with extravagant fur trim, cloaks, cowls, and other ostentatious draping that they'd take off ten minutes after arrival and not wear again until they departed—even if they were wealthy enough to afford living in the palace full time.

He didn't have clothes nice enough for a trip to the coffeehouse, let alone for a royal ball .

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter .

He would just do the spell tonight and be ready to leave by the end of the week, and when he didn't show up to the ball as basically ordered, no one would know where to begin looking for him, let alone find him.

After enough time had passed, the title and property would revert to the crown, Farthing would have nothing but his rage, and Oresti would be safe.

He reached up reflexively to curl his fingers around the necklace he wore.

No one had ever given him a gift before, let alone a piece of jewelry.

The enameled orange tabby was exactly the kind of cat he'd always wanted to have, reaching up to paw at an autumn leaf made of gold, copper, and silver, strung on a gold chain as delicate as silk thread.

It was beautiful and whimsical, a gift some might call affectionate if they were stupid enough to let themselves be smitten with a man completely out of their reach.

If there was not such a divide in power between us, and you were not already being harassed by someone, I would court you in a moment.

Andrus had almost cried after hearing those words.

They were all he could have ever wished for, a chance, even a promise, at his deepest, dearest dream.

Never in a million years would he have thought someone as magnificent as Oresti would want a pathetic little thing like him, but Oresti wasn't the type of person to lie about such things.

He was too kind and earnest for that, good enough a person to acknowledge the power differential between them.

If only…

But he couldn't. The moment Farthing learned of Oresti, realized how much Andrus cared about him, that would be it. Oresti's life would be destroyed at the very least. Andrus could not abide that.

So he tucked his beloved necklace back beneath his clothes, picked up the tea he'd come upstairs to make, and returned to the basement.

Decades ago, when his great grandfather had been arrested, the house had been stripped of everything even remotely magical, even the harmless spells meant to help keep the house clean.

Try as they might, though, officials had never been able to find the family's secret vault, the prized collection acquired over several generations of deep devotion to the study and practice of magic. They'd looked and looked, scoured every single wall looking for a secret entrance.

Not a single one of the tens of people who'd invaded their home on greedy treasure hunts had ever thought to check the floor. They were so obsessed with hidden rooms that the simple solution of a sub-basement never occurred to them.

In the farthest corner of the old basement, behind the empty racks that had once been filled with costly wines but now were just a bustling apartment complex for spiders and rodents, was the entrance.

Like most of the fancy houses, the basement floor was properly finished so that dirt wouldn't be dragged up to the rest of the house.

A costly expense typical of wealthy families.

His family's basement was divided into one large portion where wine and various foodstuffs had once been kept, everything from mushrooms, root vegetables, and cheese all the way up to large hunks of preserved meat and liquors that cost more than entire houses in the poor districts.

The rest of the basement had been divided into smaller rooms that housed all sorts of valuables, long ago sold off, but the records of all those sales remained, one of the few family possessions that had been retained over the years, though mostly because an inventory of everything they'd lost was of no use to anyone else.

And beneath all of it was what his mother had called the Vault, and his father had called their dirty little secret that would get them in trouble one day.

The door had been carefully, rather cleverly hidden in the wooden planks, following the seams instead of cutting a perfect rectangle that someone would eventually notice.

The only seam that could give it away was close to the wall and all but invisible.

It made the trapdoor look a bit ridiculous, but who cared when it did its one job of keeping things secret and safe?

Setting his tea aside, he lifted the door and set it against the far wall, swung onto the ladder and once set, grabbed the tea things one by one and set them on a tray opposite the ladder, on a rope secured to the ceiling of the sub-basement.

Reaching up, he pulled the trapdoor down by the handle installed on the underside for precisely that purpose, then made his way carefully down the ladder.

Faint light made the journey slightly easier, but the light spell was clearly on its last dregs. Maybe if he succeeded at the…

But no, if his summon worked, then by next week he'd be long gone; it wouldn't matter if the lights worked or not.

When he reached the bottom, he quickly lit the two old, battered lamps that cast significantly more light across the space.

Compared to the primary basement, the room wasn't all that large, but it was easily the size of his 'proper' bedroom that he'd ceased to use years ago.

Most of the space was overtaken by bookshelves, packed with tomes and grimoires that, if sold, would easily solve every single one of his financial problems.

That he'd had them all this time would get him arrested.

So they sat, still protected by magic that kept them safe from dust, rodents, damp, and more.

The rest of the space was shelves and worktables, and off in an arched alcove was a large bed, long ago stripped of the fine sheets and blankets that had once covered it.

He'd fallen asleep here more than once, determined to hide away from Farthing at all costs, but it was also dark, cold, and lonely, so he didn't resort to it often.

Going to the rope in the corner, he freed it from its hook and slowly lowered his tea down.

Setting that on the nearest worktable, he poured a cup of tea and took it with him to the second, larger worktable.

He had several books spread open, several pages of notes and more filled with practice circles to be certain he drew everything correctly when the time came to do the actual casting.

Which he'd thought he'd be doing the coming week. Not tonight.

Please, please, please let this work.

Drawing his notes and practice circles close, he examined each and every symbol there carefully.

Summoning was difficult, something few people ever bothered to master because it was rarely worth the risk involved.

His family, though, had been the very best at it for generations.

His great grandfather had been renowned for it.

Had once summoned a class two demon, bound it to his service for an entire week.

The brownie he'd be summoning was a class three demon, minimally dangerous but also of minimal power.

More than a little reckless for his first attempt at major magic, more than even a lot reckless, but he was beyond caring.

If he had to flee his home, the only place in the world that brought him any sort of solace and comfort, he was going to take as much of it with him as he could.

Hopefully he'd get everything right. As hard as he'd been working, as careful as he was being, surely he would. Right?