TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-EIGHT: Always More

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A lit candle, clean hands, a quiet tune that was almost “Jingle Bells” played by the twitch of his fingers against air. One smashed marshmallow. A pillow tumbling into more pillows after being pummeled by an invisible, square-shaped punch. The memory of the light that had once filled this room becoming real light that shone on a blade-shaped leaf—still green after all these days.

Alden held the spell, striving for another ten seconds while the feeling of resistance grew. If the first spells he’d cast had been like diving into water and feeling it part for him, then this was like swimming with tired muscles as the water thickened and hardened and, finally, refused to give way.

The light dimmed, then vanished. He let his auriad fall loose and enjoyed the way it settled around his wrist.

Midnight casting done.

He stood up from his cushion and carried Whan-tel’s Art and his leaf over to his desk. He sat there, flipping through pages by lamplight, resisting the urge to put on his study earring this late at night.

What next?

The flashlight spell wasn’t mastered, but he was itching to add more to his casting list.

At the end of the book, there was a summoning spell. Just a basic one—line of sight, bring that object to me. The thing you summoned traveled toward one waiting hand while the other held the auriad.

Basic. But difficult.

He’d often entertained the idea of leaving this one for last, as a prize for reaching the end of the book. But tonight that sounded like a long time to wait for such a cool new spell.

“Maybe you’re a prize for beating Winston,” he murmured.

He was almost finished reading the first page of instructions when Stuart called.

Alden slipped his leaf back into place as a bookmark, and dropped Whan-tel’s Art into his desk drawer. Shoving his auriad up his arm almost to his shoulder so that it was hidden by the sleeve of his T-shirt, he looked around the bedroom like there might be more signs of magic going on that he’d forgotten. But it was only scattered pillows and a cedar-scented candle burning by the learning cushion.

One long breath to collect his thoughts.

He’d been expecting this call and worrying about it in the back of his mind, even though the battle with Winston had been won and hanging out at the diner had been so much fun and casting spells made him feel like a badass who could tell the universe what to do if he wanted.

Last day of Welcome End for Stuart, and I left him with who knows what fallout from my encounter with Emban-art’h this morning.

Please don’t have had a horrible afternoon because of me. Please don’t have been embroiled in even more family drama because I talked to your cousins.

He answered the call, and Stuart appeared. He was stepping out of the elevator that carried people down to the siblinghold’s underground floors. He looked calm. There was even a small smile on his face.

The call with his father must have gone well. And Emban must not have complained about me to him. Good! I didn’t cause problems after all!

“Are you in the supply library?” Alden asked.

“No. This is the manuscript library.” He turned so that Alden could see more of the room.

Stuart stood in a lighted area with comfortable-looking chairs, small tables, and something that looked like an easel. Shelves surrounded the seating, the gaps in them leading into dark corridors of more shelving.

“It’s not only manuscripts, though. We also keep art on this floor, memories, some learning tools….You <<quarreled>> with Emban about me this morning.”

Alden’s relief vanished, along with his urge to ask to see what kinds of books the art’hs had. He slumped back in his chair. “I’m a horrible guest.”

“I overheard the samefaces telling Rel about it. You said it was sad that I’d spent all of Welcome End with you instead of my family and childhood companions. Then Emban said you would never understand the shades of my sadness as well as my family does. Then you said my family couldn’t tell the difference between helping me and being unkind to me. You called them mean-mean.”

He had distilled the argument in a different way than Alden would have, but the identical twins had obviously conveyed the whole thing to Rel-art’h.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper. Especially at her. Especially today. If I made things hard for you—”

“She was wrong,” Stuart said lightly, dropping into a chair and tapping a statuette on the table beside it. It was in the shape of a bird resting on a branch—a panpi’i, Alden guessed—and it glowed at the touch.

“My family has known me longer, but when it comes to understanding me, I don’t think they have as much of an advantage as Emban thinks. My life has been very different from theirs. And I hope that your <<tactic>> is superior to theirs because I like it much more.”

“My tactic for understanding…do you mean the tactic of listening to you and believing what you say about yourself?”

“Yes. That one. More people should attempt it.”

Alden returned his smile. “You’re in a good mood. I’m glad. I was afraid I’d accidentally ruined your day.”

“I had a chance to talk to Father alone,” said Stuart. “It was a comfort. And even if our conversation was a brief one, he said things that will last long in my thoughts. I’ll tell you some of what we talked about after I’ve kept it as my own for a time.”

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“I’d like that.”

“You failed at your tactic today, though. That’s why you had a quarrel with Emban.”

“I didn’t believe you about something?” Alden asked.

“You don’t seem to believe me about you. It’s my fault in part. I have been mentioning the other declared often and wishing they would welcome my company. But I’m sure I must have conveyed how much I enjoy your presence just as many times. Why would you tell Emban my weekend was really sad when we stole the wevvi cart together and I showed you the patient creatures?”