Book 2 Chapter 1

“Alastair! Alastair!”

Alastair Meade gritted his teeth and sank lower in the tall grass, feeling like he was eight years old again. Arranged around him were various Scrying tools: herbs, shards of mirrored glass, a travel-size crystal ball, and the handbook of Scrying exercises Amaryllis Shadow had given him the year before. He was about three-quarters of the way through the book, though planned to finish it over summer break, hoping to impress her with his new divination skills on the first day of term at Emberstone Academy of Magic. However…

“Alastair! The goats won’t bring themselves in, you know!”

He sighed and sat up. “Coming, Mom!” he said wearily.

Edith Meade stood by the garden gate in a dirty white apron, hands on her hips. Her expression was of someone who’d been working all day on the farm while her layabout son read in a cow pasture.

“Hurry it up,” she said, shielding her eyes against the summer sun. “They’ve been out for hours in this heat. They need to come in.”

“They’re goats,” Alastair muttered to himself as he packed up his supplies. “They’re from the desert. A little northern sun won’t do much to them.”

But he obediently trotted across the field toward his parents’ cottage. His mother’s eyes softened as he got closer.

“I’ve got spaghetti on tonight,” she said. “Sauce is already cooking. I know it’s your favorite.”

In truth, spaghetti hadn’t been his favorite since he was twelve—since he’d left his tiny hometown of Aberfeldy and attended Emberstone for the first time. Unfortunately, his mother still thought of him as a little boy, even though he’d long since grown up.

“They don’t feed you enough at that school of yours,” she tutted, looking him over. “Can’t you do something about that? Now that you’re—what, Head Alchemy Teacher?”

“I’m the headmaster.” He sighed. “I run the place, Mother. And I’m not an Alchemist, I’m an Elemental Mage—”

“Well, it’s all the same to me with your magical doodads and hocus pocus. I don’t know much about magic, all that goes above my head. What I do know is you’re skin and bone and there’s work to be done. How’re you supposed to load a hayrack with arms looking like tonight’s dinner?”

He hadn’t really been planning on loading any hayracks here. He’d hoped to get some work done while he was visiting his parents, but he should have known that was never going to happen.

“Magic,” he said, defeated. “I’ll use magic.”

She looked skeptical. “No substitute for good strong muscle.”

“And they feed me plenty at Emberstone. We have banquets every night. I eat a lot.”

“Not enough,” she said again. “You need some good home-cooked meals. I’ll make sure to fatten you up a bit.”

“Alright. If you insist. Thanks.” There was no use arguing.

“What you need, is a wife to cook for you. That school food’s clearly not doing you any favors.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” he said through his teeth, trying not to imagine what Amaryllis would do if he asked her to cook for him. She’d probably dump the plate in his lap.

“Seriously, son, when—”

“I’m going to bring the goats in now!” he said a bit more forcefully than intended. “You’re right, Mom! They’ve been out a long time! They’re probably thirsty!”

“A—alright.”

He strode off at high speed toward the goat pasture, leaving his mother looking a bit bewildered in his wake. He hadn’t spent much time with his parents over the last decade. As a boy, he’d returned home from Emberstone, of course, and he’d been back in Aberfeldy a short while after graduation, trying to make a quiet rural life for himself. But it hadn’t worked. He’d never really fit in among his family, in this small town, and once he’d gotten his first teaching job, it had been easier to stay away.

He’d hoped this summer might have been a reconciliation of sorts, an opportunity for his family to learn about his new job as headmaster, but it hadn’t gone nearly as planned. His mother clearly still saw him as the awkward child he’d once been—and when he was back in Aberfeldy, he lost all the poise and confidence he’d gained over the years—especially this last one—and regressed to a version of himself he’d thought he left far behind.

Despite his mother’s perturbation, the goats appeared content in their pasture—and they did not seem pleased he was ushering them back to their shed. A large billy goat with gleaming yellow eyes appeared to be their leader, and when he spotted Alastair entering, he guided the little herd to the far side of the field.

“Come on, lads,” Alastair said, trying to get around behind them. It had been a long time since he’d dealt with livestock—but he had grown up on a farm. Surely, it was like riding a bicycle. The skills would return in full.

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After a quarter of an hour of chasing goats around, though, he gave up and whipped his wand, conjuring a magical shield that herded the beasts toward the gate. The billy goat glared at him, as if accusing Alastair of cheating.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have all day. Work to do.”

It bleated at him in protest. Its teeth were long and yellow, and he resolved to stay far away from the creature’s mouth. He wasn’t sure how effective Battle Magic would be against goats.

Once free of the gate, he continued using his Moving Shield to herd them toward the farmhouse, where his mother stood in wait, lips pursed since the first flicker of magic in the air. She graciously said nothing, just gestured toward the shed where the goats were kept. Alastair sent them inside, and the billy goat gave him one last baleful look before vanishing through the door.

“Good,” Edith Meade said. “That’s them down for the night, then. Come out back, Alastair, I’ve got some strawberries that need weeding.”

“I was going to—”

“Do you want berries at breakfast tomorrow?”

Alastair was left speechless at that. He did want berries at breakfast.

“Then we’ll need to keep the strawberry beds in good shape,” his mother said triumphantly. “So have at it, then. Dinner’s at six.”

Alastair took one last longing look at his bag of Scrying supplies—then sighed, giving up, and headed to the kitchen garden. If only she could have seen him just a month earlier when he and his staff faced off against an army of undead raised by a group of angry parents—the Night Coven—led by Dark Mage and disgruntled noble, Marcus Gold, who’d kidnapped former Emberstone Headmaster Sylvester Ozelius. Alastair’s skills in battle had been put to the test—and in the end, he and the school faculty prevailed. With the help of an honest-to-gods demon, they’d killed Gold, put down the undead, and rescued Ozelius, who’d decided to retire after his harrowing experience. Alastair had been promoted from interim to full-time headmaster, and taken on all the duties and responsibilities that came with the position.

If she’d seen all that, maybe I wouldn’t be weeding strawberries now.

He grumbled as he knelt in the dirt, knowing that it wasn’t true. He could have saved Aberfeldy itself from a marauding dragon and it wouldn’t have made a hogs’ lick of difference. He’d still be back here in the garden, tending to his mother’s plants. No matter what happened, there was always work to be done on the farm.

Weeding wasn’t unpleasant, and he spent the next hour or so in silence, taking in the last of the sunlight while his mother banged around in the kitchen. As the sun dropped low on the horizon, a familiar figure came striding toward them across the fields.

“Hi, Dad,” Alastair said when the man’s shadow fell over him.

Angus Meade grinned, showing his crooked teeth. “She’s got you working hard out here, does she?”