The Boy Who Went Magic Read online

  “You’ve always hated me,” said Freston. His voice quavered. “You’re always pretending you’re cleverer than me. You hurt my arm. You snapped my stick in two.”

  “That’s enough,” said Mr. Fitzroy. “Explain yourself, Bert.”

  Bert felt angry at being tied into such a ridiculous story, but he quickly calmed himself. He couldn’t afford another mishap like the dueling field. “Let’s think about this,” he said. “Are you suggesting I lifted you—a larger person—over my head, and threw you out of a window?”

  Freston paused and sniffed. “Well … if it wasn’t you … ?”

  “Did you see the person?” said Mr. Fitzroy.

  “I didn’t see anyone,” said Freston. “They must have snuck up on me.”

  “Did anyone else see an intruder?” asked Mr. Fitzroy.

  Freston looked glum and shook his head.

  Mr. Fitzroy covered his face with his hand. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” he said. “I want both of you to explain exactly what happened today, from the very beginning.”

  Bert was exhausted when he left the teacher’s office. The worry of the day before, and now this disturbance, had taken more out of him than he’d realized. But it seemed he wouldn’t be allowed to go straight back to bed. As he headed for the stairs he found Finch, the new girl, waiting for him in the corridor. “Great,” he said. “Are you going to kick me again?”

  Finch put her finger to her lips. “Come here,” she said. She led him to a quiet spot beside the staircase. “What were they talking to you about?”

  Bert frowned. “Why is that any of your business?”

  The girl looked exasperated. “We have serious matters to discuss, Bert,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Has that mark on your hand been getting worse?”

  Bert felt a chill. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no point in hiding it from me,” said Finch.

  Bert put his hand behind his back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He felt deeply suspicious of the girl. The memory of his interrogation with the quæstor and Voss came back to him. “You’ve made a mistake. I have to go back to bed.”

  “I need to talk to you,” pleaded Finch. “You could be in danger.”

  “Who’s talking out there?” hissed a voice from upstairs.

  Finch winced. “We need to find somewhere private we can talk,” she said. “Is there anywhere you know about? I still haven’t figured out the layout of this cursed place.”

  Bert frowned. He badly wanted to confide in someone. But the more he thought about the night’s events, the more suspicious he felt of Finch. This could still be a trick or test. His heart was beating fast. He needed to calm down. “I’m going to bed,” he said. He hurried away before Finch could protest, and quietly closed the door of the dormitory behind him.

  Thankfully everyone was in bed again. Norton was talking in his sleep, saying something about sandwiches with ice cream. Bert didn’t want him to wake the others.

  “Norton, you’re dreaming,” he whispered.

  Norton blinked and looked around. “Sorry,” he said. He appeared to be deep in thought for a while. “Do you think they’ll have sandwiches at lunch tomorrow?”

  “Probably,” said Bert. “We usually do.”

  “Right,” said Norton. “Do you think we’ll have ice cream?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bert.

  Norton sighed. “Nothing’s perfect.”

  In moments, he was snoring again.

  It’s too much of a risk, Bert told himself as he lay awake, watching the approaching dawn. The truth was, he wanted to speak to Finch, or at least hear what she had to say. But he couldn’t look at his palm now without imagining a glow piercing through the bandages. He thought of how earnest the girl had seemed when she said that she wanted to help him, and felt a shudder of shame. He hadn’t realized avoiding his emotions would make him feel like such a coward.

  The next day wasn’t any easier for Bert. The whole school was talking about the fire and the mysterious attack on Freston. Through the course of the day, someone suggested that it must be linked to the strange figure that damaged the museum, and that, inevitably, led to people suggesting Bert had something to do with it. He tried to keep his head down as he headed toward afternoon engineering class, but he noticed Finch hurrying toward him. “Excuse me,” he said, weaving ahead of the other children in an attempt to get away. A hand suddenly gripped his arm.

  “We need to talk,” said Finch.

  “How do you move so fast?” said Bert.

  Finch stood in his path and lowered her voice. “Where should we meet?”

  “Nowhere,” said Bert. “Let me past.”

  Finch folded her arms and shook her head.

  “Hey, look,” said Freston, “Bert’s got a girlfriend.”

  Finch’s fist shot out in a blur and caught him in the stomach.

  “Ow,” gasped Freston. He staggered away.

  The corridor cleared around Bert and Finch, and the other students headed into class. “I don’t want to do that to you too,” said Finch. “Let’s just go for a talk.”

  “This isn’t personal,” whispered Bert. “You might not understand, but if you really want to help, you’d listen to me. I just need everyone to leave me alone.”

  “It’s for your own good,” said Finch.

  “Is there some problem out here?” said Mrs. Huttle, the chemistry teacher. She stood in the doorway, tapping a cane against the wall.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said Bert. “I’m just heading in.”

  Apparently, Finch wasn’t giving up. She claimed the desk behind him, and when the time came to form pairs for experiments, she took hold of his arm and didn’t let go. Some of the other children began to giggle. Bert felt his face turning red.

  “This is getting embarrassing,” said Bert.

  “Embarrassment will be the least of your worries,” said Finch.

  “All right, children,” said Mrs. Huttle. “We’re going to be doing …” She trailed off and frowned over at Finch and Bert. “Are you two holding hands?”

  “We’re fine,” said Bert.

  “That wasn’t the question,” said Mrs. Huttle.

  “We’re best friends,” said Finch.

  Bert gave an inward sigh. The other children laughed.

  “I see,” said Mrs. Huttle. She shook her head. “Well, we’re doing a chemiluminescent experiment today. It will involve effervescent oil—an expensive ingredient. Any of you that spill a drop of it will be cleaning this whole lab instead of eating lunch. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” chorused the class.

  Finch looked wickedly at Bert.

  Bert grabbed the bottle of oil.

  “What?” said Finch.

  “You’re not getting it,” said Bert. He held the bottle close.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Finch.

  “Is everyone paying attention?” said Mrs. Huttle.

  Bert looked over at the blackboard. As he did so he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Finch throw something.

  There was a sharp tink as the glass bottle hit the floor, and a pool of hissing chemicals quickly spread at Bert’s feet. Only the bottle neck was still in his grasp.

  “You have to be joking,” said Bert.

  “Whose fault was that?” yelled Mrs. Huttle.

  Finch grabbed hold of Bert’s hand and raised it along with her own. “That was our fault, ma’am,” she said. “Silly mistake.” She didn’t bother to disguise the satisfaction in her voice.

  “I shall expect this room to be spotless when I return,” said Mrs. Huttle when she had finished telling them off at the end of the lesson. “Start by sweeping the floors, and then move on to mopping.”

  She closed the door with a thump and turned the lock.

  “Right,” said Finch. “Now we can talk.”

  Bert ignored her
and began to sweep.

  “You know, effervescent oil isn’t even that expensive.”

  Bert closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was determined not to lose his temper. He felt like his palm was already prickling under the bandages.

  “All right, I’ll get straight to the point,” said Finch. She knelt and started fiddling with her shoes. “You’ll understand in a moment,” she said.

  “What are you doing?” said Bert.

  “You’ll see,” said Finch, pulling at her socks.

  Bert wondered if Finch was actually insane. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, knowing how good she was at fighting, and that there was a locked door between him and help. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know what you used to do at your last school, but this isn’t normal.”

  “I didn’t have a last school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There,” said Finch. She slammed her foot down with a thump. There was something shiny and dense where her skin should have been.

  The truth began to dawn on him.

  “Are your feet … metal?” he said.

  “Not just metal feet,” said Finch. “Metal legs. You ought to recognize them, seeing as you played a part in getting them to me.”

  Bert was too stunned to speak. He could see the cogs and pivots moving as Finch took a step toward him, just like the suit of armor at the museum. At the back of his mind he recalled Cassius’s story of the metal mage.

  “It can’t be,” he said. He sat down in the teacher’s chair and put his head in his hands. Now he wasn’t sure if he was the one losing his mind. “How could you have them?”

  “I lost my real legs in an accident a while ago,” said Finch. “My name is Finch Roberts, and my home is the airship Lugalbanda. You’ve met my father.”

  “Roberts?” said Bert. “You mean the Professor?”

  Finch nodded. “Let me look at your hand.”

  Bert allowed her to undo the bandages.

  She didn’t look pleased. “This might be worse than we thought,” she said. “Listen, Bert. That wasn’t any normal kind of accident in the museum. We think it might be a magical curse.”

  “A curse? What do you mean?”

  Finch sighed. “I know this will be difficult for you to understand. Basically, magical artifacts can be hard to predict. This one seems to have planted some kind of power inside you. It seems to be unstable, and that means it’s very dangerous. That’s the best way I can explain.”

  “Dangerous how?” said Bert.

  “Well, for one thing, it might kill you.”

  Bert took a long time getting his head around what she was telling him. He looked at his faint reflection on the glossy, varnished desk. There was no doubt in his mind that she was telling the truth, but that didn’t offer much comfort. “So, you came to tell me I’m going to die?”

  Finch bit her lip. “No,” she said. “At least, not if I can help it. We feel responsible for all this, my father and me. It was my idea to get those legs—you have no idea how annoying it was, getting around on wooden pegs and crutches—but now that I’ve got what I wanted, I can’t just leave you to suffer. I went to see my father last night, and he’s forming a plan.”

  Bert remembered the figure jumping over the wall. “It was you I saw?”

  Finch looked pleased, but she quickly grew serious again. “There’s another problem with that mark, besides what it might do to you. You know Prince Voss?”

  “I’ve met him,” said Bert. He felt a chill. “He was here when the quæstor interviewed me. And I saw him in a vision when I had the accident with the mirror.”

  “That’s not good,” said Finch. “He’s a madman, Bert. For years, he’s been collecting artifacts from Ferenor and hiding them away in his private collections. They say that he’s obsessed with magic, and that he hunts down anyone who claims to know about it—even kills them if they won’t help him. There are all kinds of rumors about people who’ve disappeared.”

  “How can he get away with that?” asked Bert. “Surely the government would stop him? The royal family hasn’t been properly in charge of the country for years.”

  “He still has enough power to protect himself,” said Finch. “The government would need to gather evidence to stop him, and everyone’s too afraid, or too unwilling, to do that. He has a small army of servants and soldiers that help him with his excursions to Ferenor, and they act as his enforcers and spies around Penvellyn. He has his own airship too—the Vulture—state of the art, huge guns and engines. Then there’s that prison he practically owns at Grimwater—”

  “All right,” Bert interrupted. He was starting to feel queasy about the danger he was in. He shook his head. “A few days ago, I thought magic was supposed to be fake.”

  “Well, that’s what Voss wants,” said Finch. “He’s pushed more than anyone to get that museum made. He wants anything to do with magic, and Ferenor, for himself. The government is happy to go along with his lies if it helps them to make their modern world, and their own achievements, look more impressive. And I honestly don’t think they believe there’s any threat from the relics of the old world anymore. They won’t help you, Bert.”

  Bert nodded. Instinctively, he knew she was right.

  Finch put her hand on his shoulder. “If Voss finds out you’ve got some kind of connection with magic, I think you could be in real danger. He won’t stop looking for you. We need to get you out of here as soon as possible. I’ll tell my father we have to speed up the plan.”

  “But what are we going to do?” said Bert.

  “We’re going to find how to undo that curse,” said Finch. “I know it might be a shock, but there’s really no way you can stay here. No one in Penvellyn can help you with that kind of injury, and if anyone was to find out about it, well, Voss has murdered people for less.”

  Bert felt like he couldn’t breathe. The idea of running away from school and becoming an outlaw was too much for him to take in. But he knew he couldn’t wait around for Prince Voss to return either. Something about the man filled him with terror.

  “Are you all right?” said Finch.

  “I’m fine,” said Bert, trying to seem calm. “I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen to you before. I was just afraid of what might happen if …” He trailed off and looked at his bandaged hand. “When you say you’ll get me out of here, do you mean I’ll be, you know, a pirate?”

  Finch shrugged. “We’ll worry about that later.”

  Bert’s stomach felt hollow, but he didn’t want to seem nervous and he couldn’t deny a faint thrill at the thought of leaving his school life behind—just like he’d dreamt of when he was younger. “And are you happy with being an outlaw?” he said. “I mean, running all the time?”

  Finch sighed and picked up the broom. “There are good and bad days,” she said as she began to clean the room. “But it’s a lot better than this nonsense. Anyway, Bert, now that you finally know the truth, I need you to keep a low profile. I don’t know how long it will take for my dad to figure things out, but if Prince Voss finds out about your condition, well—we won’t be going on any adventure, that’s for sure. So no magic tricks, and no more fires.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Bert, feeling increasingly apprehensive about the idea of going on a real adventure. “It wasn’t actually me who started that fire though.”

  Finch looked thoughtful. “Well, perhaps that’s all the more reason to be careful,” she said. “Someone here seems to have it in for you. We can’t let them blow our cover.”

  “Agreed,” said Bert.

  At that moment the door rattled and Mrs. Huttle reentered the room. She gave them a suspicious look. “Well, it looks clean I suppose. You’d better leave, Bert. I’m going to have a talk with our new student here about the correct way to behave in the classroom.”

  Bert glanced at Finch. There was more he wanted to ask her, but he knew it would have to wait for another time. He felt a little giddy as he went out into the corrid
or. Everything about school life seemed suddenly distant and pointless. Except, perhaps, for his only friend.

  “Are you still avoiding excitement?” asked Norton as they made their way between classes the following day. It was sunny outside, and the other children were laughing and joking.

  “I think I might be ill,” said Bert. It was an effort for him not to keep checking his palm, to see if it had grown worse. He began to worry that the strain must be showing. “Listen, Norton. Do you ever think of getting away from this place? Like, leaving for good?”

  Norton looked around, as if only considering their surroundings for the first time. “Not really,” he said. “I suppose I do like it better outside, with the trees and the grass.”

  “I’m not talking about outside the school,” said Bert. “I mean, getting away from this place completely. Going away to distant lands.”

  Norton looked troubled. It was an expression that Bert hadn’t seen on him before, and he began to regret having said anything. “I suppose I have,” said Norton.

  “Don’t you think it would be good?”

  Norton shook his head. “I don’t know that it would be any better,” he said. “I mean, I’d still be me. I expect I’d take my problems with me, wherever I happened to go.”

  Bert felt deflated. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, but he supposed he should have known better than to ask Norton what he thought. His friend still looked troubled, and his discomfort seemed to grow the more Bert glanced at him. “Forget I mentioned it,” he said.

  As they entered Mr. Fitzroy’s class, Norton still looked downcast and confused, and when they sat down he said: “Sometimes I don’t think anywhere feels like home.”

  All at once Bert grew deeply uneasy. Norton’s words brought up memories of when he’d first arrived at the school. The more he thought about it the worse he felt. And on top of that, Finch hadn’t turned up to class. He hadn’t seen her all morning. He began to worry that there was something wrong with the plan—or that she’d abandoned him.

  Mr. Fitzroy rapped on the blackboard. “Can anyone tell me where we finished last time?”