Alice stared blankly at the folder. A smiley face, pencilled on the folder by a long-forgotten artist twenty years ago, stared back at her with an unwavering grin. She dragged a finger across the blue cardpaper before finally mustering the will to flip it open. The first few pages were uninformative—just pictures and the boring details of Fennen Halcyk’s early childhood. According to the documentation, the man’s father had been an enthusiastic magic-user, with a fascination for fire that had culminated in his untimely death. Alice turned the pages, past accounts of temple fires, and skimmed through an excessively long report on the reign of Fennen’s infamous ex-wife, Empress Redlin Secher of Saniam. An eventful life, she noted, but that didn’t necessarily mean that it was an interesting one.
The folder was snapped shut. Alice reached for the second one in the pile—Fennen’s other folder, which was considerably thinner, despite dating from a good eighty years ago. Interesting, she thought, catching sight of the first title. Being a report, it was somewhat unnecessarily titled, ‘REPORT,’ but beneath it was the more informative, ‘Regarding Fennen Halcyk (w14, Cs, Retwenan, Berecak) and the Rain Glass.’ Alice stood up and got a glass of water before settling down on the ancient couch. You always had to prepare before reading pre-Phillips reports. As much as she disliked the Councillor of Corsics, Alice had to admit that he had some good ideas.
She was halfway through a rather dramatic retelling when the phone rang. “sSträchna!” she hissed into the receiver, realising through the annoyance that Shoma was a really good language to hiss in.
“Er, I must have the wrong number. Is this Alice Padovan?”
“Oh.” It was Szchostn. “Good eveh-nink?”
“It’s morning, Alice. Well, nearly noon, now that I look at my watch—doesn’t time just zoom by? I think it does, anyway, and—er, well.” The young man brought himself to a stop, somehow sensing Alice’s displeasure through the phone. “You want information, right? I’m told that...” he continued to speak, rattling off a long street address, as well as detailed instructions on how to get there.
“Oh?” Alice asked, fumbling for a pen. She discovered one wedged between the sofa cushions, and, after a bit of struggle, managed to write an address on the palm of her hand. The ink ran out just as she was struck with an idea. “Szchostn. You can take me?” Senseless dithering. Alice was fairly certain she heard an affirmative somewhere in the man’s answer. “I see you in half hour?”
Szchostn said some flustered good-byes before putting the phone down. Alice sighed and went back to her report, which, being written like a narrative, was far more entertaining than any report had a right to be. Once she came to an end, an odd thought came to her. But surely—no, it couldn’t be, could it? It was so wrong when you considered his real age, and yet, that was the only reason she could find for such a thing. After all, Fennen didn’t need any help extending his life.
The investigator stood up and made way to her bedroom. She pulled some clothes on, then wrote a brief summary of her findings in a little leather-bound book. Phillips had sent her to look around, but Alice would bring back the culprit. It was just the sort of accidental success that had occurred two years ago, which made Alice wonder if the whole thing wasn’t one of his plans. Would never find out if it was, she reflected bitterly, staring out her window.
Fennen. Fennen!
PHILLIPS TABLE PHILLIPS PHILLIPS TABLE TABLE TABLE PHILLIPS PHILLIPS PHIL—
FENNEN!
The wizard had zoned out while reading a manual on demon expulsion. He was earnestly pursuing a solution to his difficulties when the headache got the best of him, and he found himself entirely incapable of concentrating on anything but a very particular spot on the wall. Eskarne and the Globbly, in their desperation, had joined forces to bring the man back to reality. As powerful as they were to influence his mind, Fennen was the only one who could control the body with any degree of skill.
FENNEN HALCYK, I WILL MAKE YOU GROW BREASTS IF YOU—
“Wha—?” he asked aloud. Before anybody could answer, he heard somebody shuffling downstairs.
“Hello?” she called. “Fennen?”
He was halfway down the stairs when he caught sight of a horribly familiar blonde head. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect Redlin to find him—he had. In his head, the confrontation was just at a much later date, and Redlin didn’t have a sheath with a sword in it hanging from the side of her blue summer dress. He couldn’t have predicted the enormous headache, or the Globbly, or Eskarne’s almost debilitating disgust at the sight of the woman.
“You work here, boy?”
That creature doesn’t recognise you, Eskarne supplied.
TABLE TABLE. Globbly was nervous.
“Oh, yes,” Fennen answered, sliding behind the counter. His fingers searched for the familiar, metallic handle of the watering can, only to catch air. Too late, he remembered that he had left it upstairs, between the spider plant and his flowering cactus. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Redlin purred. “I’m looking for Fennen Halcyk. You don’t know where he is, do you—?” The question faded significantly.
“My name’s F—Francis,” he said. “The boss isn’t here. Don’t know where he is.”
“Francis?” Too late, Fennen realised that she had spoken in his native tongue—and he’d responded as if it was absolutely natural. “You speak Wenan very well. Any relation to Fennen?”
“No, but I’m from Retwenan. Immigrated, you know?”
“Ah.” Redlin stepped forward. She leaned over the counter, fixing Fennen with a frighteningly intense, blue stare. While the rest of her face and body had taken on the pretence of attraction, her eyes had remained as they had always been—blank. “But I’m sure you know something, Francis. Anything at all.” He could feel her breath on his skin. “I’m looking for my daughter, you know. My baby girl. And Fennen knows where she is—unless you know something about her?”
The little magician backed into the wall. All the voices in his mind boiled down into one hysterical question:
WhatamIgoingtodowhatamIgoingtodoWHATAMIGOINGTODO!?
Athanasius liked grocery shopping. It was soothing, in its own special way—especially the snack aisle. He always left that to last, so he could take his time and stare at the world of junk food that surrounded him. For a moment, he let the images of decadence and chocolate biscuit fingers fill him, efficiently avoiding the thought that he couldn’t afford it. Mr Fennen had a very strict grocery list, as well as a minor chocolate allergy that made all of Athanasius’ favourite snacks very much off-limits. In his opinion, it was just another way the Universe had decided to inconvenience him.
That day, he hurried through the groceries. There had been something slightly off about Mr Fennen’s voice, which Athanasius had put down to malnutrition. His mother had always stressed the importance of good eating, leaving her son with no doubts as to the question of veggies. She’d tended slightly towards the overfeeding side, with her big helpings of mashed potatoes and enormous holiday dinners, but Athanasius thought that would do the scrawny Mr Fennen a great deal of good. Thus, on that particular day, Athanasius Flopett hurried back to the bookstore. He was on a Healing Mission, and would not rest until the magician had a meal in his belly.
Humming cheerfully, he pushed open the shop door. His first impression was that Mr Fennen was speaking to a regular customer, which lasted for about five seconds before Athanasius realised what was happening. The woman had bent over the counter suggestively, while his master was pressed against the wall, a ghastly expression on his face. It was mostly fear, with a bit of desperation and a hint of disgust around the edges. All in all, not a look that Athanasius was particularly happy to see.
“Athan!” Fennen cried, creeping out from behind the counter. The grin on his face was mildly alarming, as was his apparent reluctance to turn his back to the customer. “Darling.”
“M—”
To Athanasius’ horror, his master reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Go with it,” he hissed. “My name is Francis.”
“Er, hullo, Frank,” he said brightly. “Is that a customer?”
“No, Athan, it’s a fish.” Athanasius tried not to let the nickname or good-natured sarcasm disquiet him, but nevertheless was overwhelmed by the bizarreness of the situation. His master was a hundred years older than him. “Ms Secher, this is my—Ms Secher?”
Ms Secher was looking slightly shocked. She walked to the door, said something to Fennen in an airy voice and left abruptly. The shop was bathed in an eerie silence.
Fennen cleared his throat. “Flopett?” he asked quietly.
“Mr Fennen?”
“You want an explanation, don’t you?”
Athanasius blushed. “That would be appreciated, Mr Fennen.” He added, “And please—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t call me Athan.”
Alice walked towards the parking lot, staring at the sky. Szchostn fluttered to her left, looking bewildered by the lack of conversation. The boy reminded her of her younger sister, Olivia, who always complained about Alice’s laconic disposition. ‘It’s weird!’ were her precise words, uttered with a whininess that only Olivia Padovan was capable of pulling off seriously. She smiled at the recollection, only to have it cut sharply short by the sight of a book store. With a firm hand, Alice held back her companion, and stared through the windows at the scene unfolding inside.
“Oh, aren’t they cute?” Szchostn cooed.
The sentiment lay in sharp contrast with Alice’s own thoughts.