There were around two thousand five hundred students at St Sebastian Catholic Secondary School. Among them were diverse examples of the teenage population. Students ranged from those like Trishelle Jones, who could get through four packs of gum a day and maintained the hot list on the third floor bathroom, to Derek Hua, a grade twelve student planning a senior prank involving Wagnerian opera, plastic swords and a strangely large number of potted plants. A ten minute walk through the campus could result in sudden pessimism, but it was equally likely to renew a visitor’s faith in humanity. It all came down to which bathroom stall you used.
At that moment, Athanasius Flopett was in one of the better examples. Bored artists had taken it upon themselves to decorate the grey particle-board walls—mostly with marker, but a few devoted boys had brought in paint. The back of the door was particularly interesting to look at. It was a face, done piece-by-piece by at least fifty different people. Athanasius had done the lips, which was a matter of pride with him. They had a subtle quirk, which gave Tell Magnus an air of suave superiority. Tell Magnus could get away with having a name like Tell Magnus because when you asked, “Tell Magnus what?” he would reply, “Why you deserve to live.” And he’d put a gun to your forehead. Nobody laughed at Tell Magnus.
Everybody had laughed at Athanasius when he came into the drama room dressed like an old lady. After an embarrassing performance, he had begged the teacher to go to the washroom. Now, he was sitting in the stall, trying to pull himself together. If his classmates had laughed at his performance, things would have been okay, but they hadn’t. The moment he started talking, they’d stared at him like there was a llama on his head, and when he was done, they only clapped because Ms Spiro deducted marks if you didn’t. It was times like this that Athanasius wished he was a proper magician. One who could conjure up fireballs.
He sighed and began to examine the calligraphy over Tell Magnus’ head. If Athanasius was that cool, he could have defecated on the stage and still have his classmates applaud him. Sadly, he wasn’t. Though being chubby, awkward and a little bit odd didn’t help his case, what sealed the deal was his name. The moment a girl heard him introduce himself, she’d lose all interest. Being called Flopett wasn’t an immediate sign of erectile dysfunction, but what girl wanted to be Mrs Flopett for the rest of her life? What girl wanted to inflict that upon her hypothetical offspring?
Athanasius was uncool, and doomed to stay that way. He saw a lifetime of embarrassing moments ahead of him—school presentations, job interviews, performances and parties. Perhaps the most productive thing was to learn how to walk away from it with his head held high.
“Dude,” somebody said, breaking into Athanasius’ thoughts. “You’ve been in that stall for like an hour. The hell are you doing, man?”
“Seven minutes, actually.” He added, “Do you need this stall?”
“Nah,” the voice answered. “Just wondering. You alright, man?”
“Oh, yeah. Just fine. Contemplating suicide.”
“No, man, don’t do that!” Athanasius was touched to note honest concern in the boy’s voice. “You got like, a whole life worth living for and stuff. You know. Don’t you wanna, like, get married? Have kids and stuff?” There was a pause. “And it’s, like… a sin, right? Like, Jesus would be all mad and shit.”
Athanasius thought Jesus was a nice guy, but he had no delusions about being religious. Still, the rest of the boy’s points were valid ones. “I guess that’s true,” he said.
“Yeah, man. You ever seen a girl naked? Like, a real girl?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Me neither, man. But, like, don’t tell no-one, aight?” The boy continued dreamily, “I know this one hot girl, and, like, I think she likes me. Like, this one time, we were doing like slope or some messed up shit in math class and she told me how to, like, do it. She’s in-ter-leck-chual ‘n’ shit.”
“Oh? What’s her name?”
“Camille Soriano. But don’t tell no-one, aight?”
Athanasius froze when he heard the name. Out of hundreds of other students, the boy on the other side had chosen the one girl Athanasius had dreamed about since kindergarten. That other boys should like sweet, intelligent Camille Soriano was not a surprise. It was, however, an affront that such an uncouth—such an idiotic bumbler should dare to suggest that he was good enough for her. Filled with the righteous fury of love, Athanasius slid back the lock and prepared to give the boy a good talking-to.
He had just caught sight of the boy’s vacuous face when the ground suddenly disappeared. Everything turned a familiar shade of pink. It was happening again.
“I assure you, madam, I had no idea—”
“How dare you stock such a book!? I’ll have you know that I am an influential person, and—”
“Madam, the book in question was an accurate look into the Holocaust—”
“I don’t care!” she screeched. “It was entirely inappropriate for my daughter! Couldn’t you see that she was too young for such—such vile material? I will contact my lawyers…”
Fennen sighed and waited for the torrent of angry speech to end. The girl in question was Gabrielle Bodrogi, who, at sixteen, seemed entirely capable of reading about the Holocaust. She came to Fennen’s shop every few weeks and dug through the boxes in the far corner while pleasantly chattering about her previous purchases. Fennen liked Gabrielle. She was always satisfied with Fennen’s service, and tended to leave the place neater than before. Her mother, however, was a bit of a beast.
“Do you mind telling me what your actual objection to it was, Mrs Bodrogi?”
She stared at him. “I already said—!”
“I’m sorry, madam.” He took care to speak with a slight accent. “My English is not so good.” Or rather, he couldn’t be bothered to listen to her.
“There was death in that book, Mr Halcyk!”
There was a silence as Fennen’s brain ticked along. Death. It was the conclusion to every life, on every world. One didn’t want to tell their two-year-old that one day, it would all end, but at some point, a parent had to explain where Grandpa went. “She’s sixteen years old, Mrs Bodrogi,” he said at last. “I think she knows people die.”
“I see.” Her voice was soft and suspiciously calm. “We’ll see about this, Mr Fennen.” This said, she abruptly turned and left the shop in a flurry of clacking heels and voluminous, peroxide blonde hair. Something about her outraged walk spoke of visits to lawyers, of arguments at court regarding the mental health of her poor, delicate Gabrielle.
Fennen looked down at the watering can and wondered whether he should have hit her when he had the chance. After a moment, he decided that violence wasn’t the best answer in that case. As it was, Mrs Bodrogi would go home, have a talk with Gabrielle and live with the knowledge that her sixteen-year-old baby wasn’t quite a baby any more. There probably wouldn’t be a lawsuit, or if there was, it would be thrown out of court before Fennen would have to bother going suit shopping.
Indeed, that was one of those moments where a watering can to the temple was not necessary. A subtle and meaningful glance at it could help solve Athanasius’ punctuality issues, however. Fennen glanced at the clock. His suspicions were confirmed after a laborious reading of the analog dial: the apprentice was a good half hour late. Bad planning was what it was. It wouldn’t do, especially if Athanasius grew confident in his not-unsubstantial magical powers.
The door jingled and clicked shut. “Hello, Mr Fennen,” said Candice Feathers, smiling pleasantly.
It was never going to be somebody he wanted to talk to, was it?
It had come from the school. Alice was certain of it. Her sensitive Sniffer had registered an enormous spike in magical activity, and even if she hadn’t been looking at it at that moment, she’d still felt the vibrations in her chest. Chances were, whatever it was had nothing to do with her investigation, but her orders had been to take a look at any unusual occurrences. From the description of the area, it was quite clear that magic strong enough to feel was not likely to happen outside of Toronto. If Greg was with her, he would have called it a queer incident. He would have then asked for a sammich.
Alice bit her lip and tried not to feel too homesick. There was no reason for her to find Greg’s demands endearing. Guilt was positively preposterous. She crossed the street carefully and walked straight through the front doors of the school. Nobody paid any attention to her. Though in her twenties, Alice was quite short enough to pass for a sixteen-year-old with a rather odd dress sense and a big pocket watch.
She walked across the airy foyer, turning left into a smaller corridor. As she passed the third door, the directional arrow of her Sniffer swung back. Alice put it back into her pocket and hid behind a vending machine. Two minutes later, the door opened. A teenage boy poked his head out, checking that the hallway was clear before slipping out. She waited a few seconds before following him outside, to the bus stand across the street. It was carelessly done, but the boy seemed far to preoccupied to notice her.
At the bus stand, she had the opportunity to examine him more closely. In appearance, he was the sort of boy that existed in droves everywhere—slightly chubby, awkward and, in all probability, very self-conscious. If that was all, Alice would have dismissed him as painfully normal, but this bland teen came with a magical presence that could cut between worlds. Like a platypus, Alice thought. Except very few humans had natural Platyputic Auras of any considerable strength.
The bus arrived. Alice got on after the boy, suspecting that she was on to something very important.
Fennen stared at the kettle. A distorted Fennen stared back. Behind him, sitting at his kitchen table, was Candice Feathers. To put it more clearly, the cause of nearly every problem that Fennen had faced upon arriving in Canada was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on biscuits while waiting for tea. Though he had no proof, Fennen was certain that every magician, every shady organisation’s offer, every little reminder of the evil bastard he used to be had been lead to him by that inoffensive old lady. Who else knew that he was a wizard?
Well, lots of people knew now, but they didn’t when he first arrived. Most people were happy to take him for a pleasant little Estonian immigrant, who sold quality books and sometimes offered snacks to customers he particularly liked. Nobody lived in Plumme Avenue for more than five years, so they never noticed that he aged very, very slowly. Nobody except Candice Feathers, who had been there for thirty years, and also spoke fluent Estonian. The day they met had been painfully embarrassing. This one was marginally better—but only very, very marginally. There was nothing about Redlin that wasn’t embarrassing.
“Well, Mr Fennen, you are very kind,” said Candice as he poured her tea. “Yes, very kind, indeed. With your manners, it’s not surprising a lovely lady like Ms Redlin fell for you.”
Lovely was not the word for Fennen’s ex-wife. He raised an eyebrow. “Mrs Feathers, what do you know about her?”
“Oh, she was so lovely, wasn’t she? I saw her!” She picked up another sugared biscuit. “What eyes! So intense, that colour. And curvaceous—not like those twigs, you know. But beauty isn’t everything, is it, Mr Fennen?” Candice sighed sympathetically. “Politics. It always ruins things, Mr Fennen. How were you to know your wife was such a—um, what’s the word? A revolutionary. Yes.”
“She did… go against the grain,” he managed.
“Now, I’m sure she was just lovely in person, but I never did agree with the death penalty. Too risky, I’ve always said, and I’m glad we don’t have it up here!” She continued to discuss the death penalty while Fennen organised his thoughts. “Did you say something, Mr Fennen?”
He looked up. “Oh—er—no, just… you say she’s on Earth, Mrs Feathers?”
The little lady laughed. “Of course! What other world is there, Mr Fennen?” Her eyes twinkled. Candice Feathers knew quite well that there were thirty others to choose from. “Been about near Scarborough, I hear.”
There was a long silence. Scarborough was not nearly as far as Fennen would like her to be. If Redlin was still alive in any world, she wouldn’t be far enough. The problem, as Eskarne had smugly put it the night before, was that a part of him remained stubbornly in love with his ex-wife. That part could very well give away his life savings, a leg and the entire contents of his kitchen without thinking about the consequences.
“Do drink your tea, Mr Fennen. It’s going cold.”
He brought the cup to his lips and tried hard not to grimace as he took a large sip. Tea used to be part of the ceremonies at the rain temple, which Fennen had attended every two weeks when he was still in his home world. The drink was disgusting, but they had good food and pretty dancers.
“So, she’s in these parts?” he asked weakly. “What’s she doing here?”
“Looking for her daughter, poor thing! I didn’t know you had a girl, Mr Fennen. You do seem awfully young-looking for your age, but there it is.” She shook her head. “Poor, poor darling, separated from her baby. She seemed ever so distraught when I saw her!”
His daughter was alive too? And on Earth? When Fennen picked Earth, he’d done it because the magic there was intensely mundane. Now, as it turned out, intensely mundane was something completely different from what he had imagined. He’d set out in pursuit of boredom, and what did they hand to him? Adventure! Daughters! Psycho nutter ex-empress wives! Knowing Redlin, she’d probably try taking over Canada, and the people would be so bewildered that it would be on him to save them all.
“Wait,” he said, realising what Candice had said. “You saw her? Did you tell her about me?”
“Of course, Mr Fennen! She has a right to know where her husband is.” Candice stood up and picked up the umbrella. “Well, Mr Fennen, it has been nice, but I do have some work to see to, and—”
“Yes, yes. Good-bye.” He led her to the door and watched her cardigan-clad back shrink as she walked down the road to her house. Running the opposite way was his tardy apprentice.
Athanasius was not a boy given to frequent exertion. By the time he stopped in front of Fennen, his face was bright red and he was breathing like he had just finished a marathon. “S-sorry,” he said between breaths, “I—magic. Strange.”
“Come in, Flopett.” Fennen held the door open for his apprentice, then followed him in.
Nobody noticed a young lady walking leisurely towards the shop. She glanced in through the windows as she passed by, apparently uninterested in what the store had to offer. Alice frowned when she read the name on the sign. She knew it well enough—Fennen had been serious trouble eighty years ago, but as far as she knew, he was now a perfectly respectable citizen. Yet there he was, talking to that boy… Flopett, he’d called him… could he have done it alone? Alice continued towards the supermarket, filled with important questions.